UNIVERSITY  FARM 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST 


BY    IRVIN    S.    COBB 


FICTION 

OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST 

BACK  HOME 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  MR.  TRIMM 

WIT  AND  HUMOR 

"SPEAKING  OF  OPERATIONS 

EUROPE  REVISED 
ROUGHING  IT  DE  LUXE 
COBB'S  BILL  OF  FARE 
COBB'S  ANATOMY 

MISCELLANY 

PATHS  OF  GLORY 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST 


BY 

IRVIN  S.  COBB 

AUTHOR  OF  "BACK  HOME,"  "PATHS  OF  GLORY,' 
ETC. 


TOIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LIBRARY 

BRANCH  OF  THE 
COLLEGE  OF  AGRICULTURE 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


MINTED  IN  THB  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMEBIOA 

OOPTBIGHT,  1914,  1915  AND  1916, 
BT  THE  OUBTIS   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


TO  MARGARET  MAYO  SELWYN 


64-77 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  LORD  PROVIDES 11 

31.  A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES       ....  49 

III.  JUDGE  PRIEST  COMES  BACK 92 

IV.  A  CHAPTER  FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ANT  .       .       .  141 
V.  SERGEANT  JIMMY  BAGBY'S  FEET      ....  198 

VI.    ACCORDING  TO  THE  CODE 232 

VII.    FORREST'S  LAST  CHARGE 280 

VIII.    DOUBLE-BARRELLED  JUSTICE 324 

IX.    A  BEAUTIFUL  EVENING 361 


[vii] 


OLD  JUDGE  PRIEST 


I 

THE   LORD   PROVIDES 


THIS   story    begins   with    Judge    Priest 
sitting  at  his  desk  at  his  chambers  at 
the  old  courthouse.    I  have  a  suspicion 
that  it  will  end  with  him  sitting  there. 
As  to  that  small  detail  I  cannot  at  this  time  be 
quite  positive.     Man  proposes,  but  facts  will 
have  their  way. 

If  so  be  you  have  read  divers  earlier  tales  of 
my  telling  you  already  know  the  setting  for  the 
opening  scene  here.  You  are  to  picture  first  the 
big  bare  room,  high-ceiled  and  square  of  shape, 
its  plastering  cracked  and  stained,  its  wall  cases 
burdened  with  law  books  in  splotched  leather 
jerkins;  and  some  of  the  books  stand  straight 
and  upright,  showing  themselves  to  be  confident 
of  the  rectitude  of  all  statements  made  therein, 
and  some  slant  over  sideways  against  their  fel 
lows  to  the  right  or  the  left,  as  though  craving 
confirmatory  support  for  their  contents. 

Observe  also  the  water  bucket  on  the  little 
shelf  in  the  corner,  with  the  gourd  dipper  hang- 

[11] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


ing  handily  by;  the  art  calendar,  presented  with 
the  compliments  of  the  Langstock  Lumber 
Company,  tacked  against  the  door;  the  spittoon 
on  the  floor;  the  steel  engraving  of  President 
Davis  and  his  Cabinet  facing  you  as  you  enter; 
the  two  wide  windows  opening  upon  the  west 
side  of  the  square;  the  woodwork,  which  is  of 
white  poplar,  but  grained  by  old  Mr.  Kane,  our 
leading  house,  sign  and  portrait  painter,  into 
what  he  reckoned  to  be  a  plausible  imitation  of 
the  fibrillar  eccentricities  of  black  walnut;  and 
in  the  middle  of  all  this,  hunched  down  behind 
his  desk  like  a  rifleman  in  a  pit,  is  Judge  Priest, 
in  a  confusing  muddle  of  broad,  stooped  shoul 
ders,  wrinkled  garments  and  fat  short  legs. 

Summertime  would  have  revealed  him  clad  in 
linen,  or  alpaca,  or  ample  garments  of  homespun 
hemp,  but  this  particular  day,  being  a  day  in  the 
latter  part  of  October,  Judge  Priest's  limbs  and 
body  were  clothed  in  woollen  coverings.  The 
first  grate  fire  of  the  season  burned  in  his  grate. 
There  was  a  local  superstition  current  to  the 
effect  that  our  courthouse  was  heated  with 
steam.  Years  before,  a  bond  issue  to  provide  the 
requisite  funds  for  this  purpose  had  been  voted 
after  much  public  discussion  pro  and  con. 
Thereafter,  for  a  space,  contractors  and  journey 
men  artisans  made  free  of  the  building,  to  the 
great  discomfort  of  Certain  families  of  resident 
rats,  old  settler  rats  really,  that  had  come  to 
look  upon  their  cozy  habitats  behind  the 
wainscoting  as  homes  for  life.  Anon  iron  pipes 

[12] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


emerged  at  unexpected  and  jutting  angles  from 
the  baseboards  here  and  there,  to  coil  in  the 
corners  or  else  to  climb  the  walls,  joint  upon 
joint,  and  festoon  themselves  kinkily  against 
the  ceilings. 

Physically  the  result  was  satisfying  to  the 
eye  of  the  taxpayer;  but  if  the  main  function  of 
a  heating  plant  be  to  provide  heat,  then  the  inno 
vation  might  hardly  be  termed  an  unqualified 
success.  Official  dwellers  of  the  premises  main 
tained  that  the  pipes  never  got  really  hot  to  the 
touch  before  along  toward  the  Fourth  of  July, 
remaining  so  until  September,  when  they  began 
perceptibly  to  cool  off  again.  Down  in  the 
cellar  the  darky  janitor  might  feed  the  fire  box 
until  his  spine  cracked  and  the  boilers  seethed 
and  simmered,  but  the  steam  somehow  seemed 
to  get  lost  in  transit,  manifesting  itself  on  the 
floors  above  only  in  a  metallic  clanking  and 
clacking,  which  had  been  known  seriously  to 
annoy  lawyers  in  the  act  of  offering  argument 
to  judge  and  jurors.  When  warmth  was  needed 
to  dispel  the  chill  in  his  own  quarters  Judge 
Priest  always  had  a  fire  kindled  in  the  fireplace. 

He  had  had  one  made  and  kindled  that 
morning.  All  day  the  red  coals  had  glowed 
between  the  chinks  in  the  pot-bellied  grate  and 
the  friendly  flames  had  hummed  up  the  flue, 
renewing  neighbourly  acquaintance  with  last 
winter's  soot  that  made  fringes  on  the  blackened 
fire  brick,  so  that  now  the  room  was  in  a  glow. 
Little  tiaras  of  sweat  beaded  out  on  the  judge's 

[13] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


bald  forehead  as  he  laboured  over  the  papers  in  a 
certain  case,  and  frequently  he  laid  down  his 
pen  that  he  might  use  both  hands,  instead  of  his 
left  only,  to  reach  and  rub  remote  portions  of 
his  person.  Doing  this,  he  stretched  his  arms 
until  red  strips  showed  below  the  ends  of  his 
wristbands.  At  a  distance  you  would  have  said 
the  judge  was  wearing  coral  bracelets. 

The  sunlight  that  had  streamed  in  all  after 
noon  through  the  two  windows  began  to  fade, 
and  little  shadows  that  stayed  hidden  through 
the  day  crawled  under  the  door  from  the  hall 
beyond  and  crept  like  timorous  mice  across  the 
planking,  ready  to  dart  back  the  moment  the 
gas  was  lit.  Judge  Priest  strained  to  reach  an 
especially  itchy  spot  between  his  shoulder 
blades  and  addressed  words  to  Jeff  Poindexter, 
coloured,  his  body  servant  and  house  boy. 

"They  ain't  so  very  purty  to  look  at — red 
flannels  ain't,"  said  the  judge.  "But,  Jeff,  I've 
noticed  this — they  certainly  are  mighty  lively 
company  till  you  git  used  to  'em.  I  never  am 
the  least  bit  lonely  fur  the  first  few  days  after  I 
put  on  my  heavy  underwear." 

There  was  no  answer  fr@m  Jeff  except  a  deep, 
soft  breath.  He  slept.  At  a  customary  hour 
he  had  come  with  Mittie  May,  the  white  mare, 
and  the  buggy  to  take  Judge  Priest  home  to 
supper,  and  had  found  the  judge  engaged 
beyond  his  normal  quitting  time.  That,  how 
ever,  had  not  discommoded  Jeff.  Jeff  always 
knew  what  to  do  with  his  spare  moments.  Jeff 

LI*] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


always  had  a  way  of  spending  the  long  winter 
evenings.  He  leaned  now  against  a  bookrack, 
with  his  elbow  on  the  top  shelf,  napping  lightly. 
Jeff  preferred  to  sleep  lying  down  or  sitting 
down,  but  he  could  sleep  upon  his  feet  too — and 
frequently  did. 

Having,  by  brisk  scratching  movements, 
assuaged  the  irritation  between  his  shoulder 
blades,  the  judge  picked  up  his  pen  and  shoved 
it  across  a  sheet  of  legal  cap  that  already  was 
half  covered  with  his  fine,  close  writing.  He 
never  dictated  his  decisions,  but  always  wrote 
them  out  by  hand.  The  pen  nib  travelled  along 
steadily  for  awhile.  Eventually  words  in  a 
typewritten  petition  that  rested  on  the  desk  at 
his  left  caught  the  judge's  eye. 

"Huh!"  he  grunted,  and  read  the  quoted 
phrase,  "  'True  Believers'  Afro-American 
Church  of  Zion,  sometimes  called  -  '  With 
out  turning  his  head  he  again  hailed  his  slumber 
ing  servitor:  "Jeff,  why  do  you-all  call  that  there 
little  church-house  down  by  the  river  Possum 
Trot?" 

Jeff  roused  and  grunted,  shaking  his  head 
clear  of  the  lingering  dregs  of  drowsiness. 

"Suh?"  he  inquired.  "Wuz  you  speakin'  to 
me,  Jedge?" 

"Yes,  I  was.  Whut's  the  reason  amongst 
your  people  fur  callin*  that  little  church  down 
on  the  river  front  Possum  Trot?" 

Jeff  chuckled  an  evasive  chuckle  before  he 
made  answer.  For  all  the  close  relations  that 

[15] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


existed  between  him  and  his  indulgent  employer, 
Jeff  had  no  intention  of  revealing  any  of  the 
secrets  of  the  highly  secretive  breed  of  humans 
to  which  he  belonged.  His  is  a  race  which,  upon 
the  surface  of  things,  seems  to  invite  the  ridicule 
of  an  outer  and  a  higher  world,  yet  dreads  that 
same  ridicule  above  all  things.  Show  me  the 
white  man  who  claims  to  know  intimately  the 
workings  of  his  black  servant's  mind,  who  pro 
fesses  to  be  able  to  tell  anything  of  any  negro's 
lodge  affiliations  or  social  habits  or  private 
affairs,  and  I  will  show  you  a  born  liar. 

Mightily  well  Jeff  understood  the  how  and  the 
why  and  the  wherefore  of  the  derisive  hate 
borne  by  the  more  orthodox  creeds  among  his 
people  for  the  strange  new  sect  known  as  the 
True  Believers.  He  could  have  traced  out  step 
by  step,  with  circumstantial  detail,  the  progress 
of  the  internal  feud  within  the  despised  congre 
gation  that  led  to  the  upspringing  of  rival  sets  of 
claimants  to  the  church  property,  and  to  the 
litigation  that  had  thrown  the  whole  tangled 
business  into  the  courts  for  final  adjudication. 
But  except  in  company  of  his  own  choosing  and 
his  own  colour,  wild  horses  could  not  have  drawn 
that  knowledge  from  Jeff,  although  it  would 
have  pained  him  to  think  any  white  person  who 
had  a  claim  upon  his  friendship  suspected  him 
of  concealment  of  any  detail  whatsoever. 

"He-he,"  chuckled  Jeff.  "I  reckin  that's  jes' 
nigger  foolishness.  Me,  I  don'  know  no  reason 
why  they  sh'd  call  a  church  by  no  sech  a  name 
[16] 


THE      LORD      PROVIDES 


as  that.  I  ain't  never  had  no  truck  wid  'em  ole 
True  Believers,  myse'f .  I  knows  some  calls  'em 
the  Do-Righters,  and  some  calls  'em  the  Possum 
Trotters."  His  tone  subtly  altered  to  one  of 
innocent  bewilderment:  "Whut  you  doin', 
Jedge,  pesterin'  yo'se'f  wid  sech  low-down  trash 
as  them  darkies  is?" 

Further  discussion  of  the  affairs  of  the  strange 
faith  that  was  divided  against  itself  might  have 
ensued  but  that  an  interruption  came.  Steps 
sounded  in  the  long  hallway  that  split  the  lower 
floor  of  the  old  courthouse  lengthwise,  and  at  a 
door — not  Judge  Priest's  own  door  but  the 
door  of  the  closed  circuit-court  chamber  adjoin 
ing — a  knocking  sounded,  at  first  gently,  then 
louder  and  more  insistent. 

"See  who  'tis  out  yonder,  Jeff,"  bade  Judge 
Priest.  "And  ef  it's  anybody  wantin'  to  see  me 
I  ain't  got  time  to  see  'em  without  it's  somethin' 
important.  I  aim  to  finish  up  this  job  before 
we  go  on  home." 

He  bent  to  his  task  again.  But  a  sudden  draft 
of  air  whisked  certain  loose  sheets  off  his  desk, 
carrying  them  toward  the  fireplace,  and  he 
swung  about  to  find  a  woman  in  his  doorway. 
She  was  a  big,  upstanding  woman,  overfleshed 
and  overdressed,  and  upon  her  face  she  bore  the 
sigE.  of  her  profession  as  plainly  and  indubit 
ably  as  though  it  had  been  branded  there  in 
scarlet  letters. 

The  old  man's  eyes  narrowed  as  he  recognised 
her.  But  up  he  got  on  the  instant  and  bowed 
[IT] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


before  her.  No  being  created  in  the  image  of  a 
woman  ever  had  reason  to  complain  that  in  her 
presence  Judge  Priest  forgot  his  manners. 

"Howdy  do,  ma'am,"  he  said  ceremoniously. 
"Will  you  walk  in?  I'm  sort  of  busy  jest  at 
present." 

"That's  what  your  nigger  boy  told  me,  out 
side,"  she  said;  "but  I  came  right  on  in  any 
way." 

"Ah-hah,  so  I  observe,"  stated  Judge  Priest 
dryly,  but  none  the  less  politely;  "mout  I  en 
quire  the  purpose  of  this  here  call?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  you  what  brought 
me  here  without  wastin'  any  more  words  than  I 
can  help,"  said  the  woman.  "No,  thank  you,' 
Judge,"  she  went  on  as  he  motioned  her  toward  a 
seat;  "I  guess  I  can  say  what  I've  got  to  say, 
standin'  up.  But  you  set  down,  please,  Judge."! 

She  advanced  to  the  side  of  his  desk  as  he 
settled  back  in  his  chair,  and  rested  one  broad 
flat  hand  upon  the  desk  top.  Three  or  four 
heavy,  bejewelled  bangles  that  were  on  her  arm 
slipped  down  her  gloved  wrist  with  a  clinking 
sound.  Her  voice  was  coarsened  and  flat;  it 
was  more  like  a  man's  voice  than  a  woman's, 
and  she  spoke  with  a  masculine  directness. 

"There  was  a  girl  died  at  my  house  early  this 
mornin',"  she  told  him.  "She  died  about  a 
quarter  past  four  o'clock.  She  had  something 
like  pneumonia.  She  hadn't  been  sick  but  two 
days;  she  wasn't  very  strong  to  start  with  any- 
how.  Viola  St.  Claire  was  the  name  she  went 
[18] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


by  here.  I  don't  know  what  her  real  name  was — 
she  never  told  anybody  what  it  was.  She  wasn't 
much  of  a  hand  to  talk  about  herself.  She  must 
have  been  nice  people  though,  because  she  was 
always  nice  and  ladylike,  no  matter  what 
happened.  From  what  I  gathered  off  and  on, 
she  came  here  from  some  little  town  down  near 
Memphis.  I  certainly  liked  that  girl.  She'd 
been  with  me  nearly  ten  months.  She  wasn't 
more  than  nineteen  years  old. 

"Well,  all  day  yestiddy  she  was  out  of  her 
head  with  a  high  fever.  But  just  before  she  died 
she  come  to  and  her  mind  cleared  up.  The  doc 
tor  was  gone — old  Doctor  Lake.  He'd  done  all 
he  could  for  her  and  he  left  for  his  home  about 
midnight,  leavin'  word  that  he  was  to  be  called 
if  there  was  any  change.  Only  there  wasn't  time 
to  call  him;  it  all  came  so  sudden. 

"I  was  settin'  by  her  when  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  whispered,  sort  of  gaspin',  and  called 
me  by  my  name.  Well,  you  could  'a'  knocked 
me  down  with  a  feather.  From  the  time  she 
started  sinkin'  nobody  thought  she'd  ever  get 
her  senses  back.  She  called  me,  and  I  leaned 
over  her  and  asked  her  what  it  was  she  wanted, 
and  she  told  me.  She  knew  she  was  dyin'.  She 
told  me  she'd  been  raised  right,  which  I  knew 
already  without  her  tellin'  me,  and  she  said 
she'd  been  a  Christian  girl  before  she  made  her 
big  mistake.  And  she  told  me  she  wanted  to  be 
buried  like  a  Christian,  from  a  regular  church, 
with  a  sermon  and  flowers  and  music  and  all 
[19] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


that.  She  made  me  promise  that  I'd  see  it  was 
done  just  that  way.  She  made  me  put  my  hand 
in  her  hand  and  promise  her.  She  shut  her  eyes 
then,  like  she  was  satisfied,  and  in  a  minute  or 
two  after  that  she  died,  still  holdin'  on  tight  to 
my  hand.  There  wasn't  nobody  else  there — just 
me  and  her — and  it  was  about  a  quarter  past 
four  o'clock  in  the  mornin'." 

"Well,  ma'am,  I'm  very  sorry  for  that  poor 
child.  I  am  so,"  said  Judge  Priest,  and  his  tone 
showed  he  meant  it;  "yit  still  I  don't  understand 
your  purpose  in  comin'  to  me,  without  you  need 
money  to  bury  her."  His  hand  went  toward  his 
flank,  where  he  kept  his  wallet. 

"Keep  your  hand  out  of  your  pocket,  please, 
sir,"  said  the  woman.  "I  ain't  callin'  on  any 
body  for  help  in  a  money  way.  That's  all  been 
attended  to.  I  telephoned  the  undertaker  the 
first  thing  this  mornin'. 

"It's  something  else  I  wanted  to  speak  with 
you  about.  Well,  I  didn't  hardly  wait  to  get  my 
breakfast  down  before  I  started  off  to  keep  my 
word  to  Viola.  And  I've  been  on  the  constant 
go  ever  since.  I've  rid  miles  on  the  street  cars, 
and  I've  walked  afoot  until  the  bottoms  of  my 
feet  both  feel  like  boils  right  this  minute,  tryin' 
to  find  somebody  that  was  fitten  to  preach  a 
sermon  over  that  dead  girl. 

"First  I  made  the  rounds  of  the  preachers  of 
all  the  big  churches.  Doctor  Cavendar  was  my 
first  choice;  from  what  I've  heard  said  about  him 
he's  a  mighty  good  man.  But  he  ain't  in  town. 

[20] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


His  wife  told  me  he'd  gone  off  to  district  con 
ference,  whatever  that  is.  So  then  I  went  to  all 
the  others,  one  by  one.  I  even  went  'way  up  on 
Alabama  Street — to  that  there  little  mission 
church  in  the  old  Acme  rink.  The  old  man  that 
runs  the  mission — I  forget  his  name — he  does  a 
heap  of  work  among  poor  people  and  down-and- 
out  people,  and  I  guess  he  might've  said  yes, 
only  he's  right  bad  off  himself.  He's  sick  in  bed." 

She  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"Oh,  I  went  everywhere,  I  went  to  all  of  'em. 
There  was  one  or  two  acted  like  they  was  afraid 
I  might  soil  their  clothes  if  I  got  too  close  to  'em. 
They  kept  me  standin'  in  the  doors  of  their  stud 
ies  so  as  they  could  talk  back  to  me  from  a  safe 
distance.  Some  of  the  others,  though,  asked 
me  inside  and  treated  me  decent.  But  they 
every  last  one  of  'em  said  no." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  not  a  single 
minister  in  this  whole  city  is  willin'  to  hold  a 
service  over  that  dead  girl?"  Judge  Priest 
shrilled  at  her  with  vehement  astonishment — 
and  something  else — in  his  voice. 

"No,  no,  not  that,"  the  woman  made  haste  to 
explain.  "There  wasn't  a  single  one  of  'em  but 
said  he'd  come  to  my  house  and  conduct  the 
exercises.  They  was  all  willin'  enough  to  go  to 
the  grave  too.  But  you  see  that  wouldn't  do. 
I  explained  to  'em,  until  I  almost  lost  my  voice, 
that  it  had  to  be  a  funeral  in  a  regular  church, 
with  flowers  and  music  and  all.  That  poor  girl 
got  it  into  her  mind  somehow,  I  think,  that  she'd 
[21] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


have  a  better  chance  in  the  next  world  if  she 
went  out  of  this  one  like  a  Christian  should 
ought  to  go.  I  explained  all  that  to  'em,  and 
from  explainin'  I  took  to  arguin'  with  'em,  and 
then  to  pleadin'  and  beggin'.  I  bemeaned  my 
self  before  them  preachers.  I  was  actually  ready 
to  go  down  on  my  knees  before  'em. 

"Oh,  I  told  'em  the  full  circumstances.  I  told 
'em  I  just  had  to  keep  my  promise.  I'm  afraid 
not  to  keep  it.  I've  lived  my  own  life  in  my  own 
way  and  I  guess  I've  got  a  lot  of  things  to  answer 
for.  I  ain't  worryin'  about  that — now.  But 
you  don't  dare  to  break  a  promise  that's  made 
to  the  dyin'.  They  come  back  and  ha'nt  you. 
I've  always  heard  that  and  I  know  it's  true. 

"One  after  another  I  told  those  preachers  just 
exactly  how  it  was,  but  still  they  all  said  no. 
Every  one  of  'em  said  his  board  of  deacons  or 
elders  or  trustees,  or  something  like  that, 
wouldn't  stand  for  openin'  up  their  church  for 
Viola.  I  always  thought  a  preacher  could  run 
his  church  to  suit  himself,  but  from  what  I've 
heard  to-day  I  know  now  he  takes  his  orders 
from  somebody  else.  So  finally,  when  I  was 
about  to  give  up,  I  thought  about  you  and  I 
come  here  as  straight  as  I  could  walk." 

"But,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  a  regular 
church  member  myself.  I  reckin  I  oughter  be, 
but  I  ain't.  And  I  still  fail  to  understand  why 
you  should  think  I  could  serve  you,  though  I 
don't  mind  tellin'  you  I'd  be  mighty  glad  to  ef 

I  could." 

[22] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


"I'll  tell  you  why.  I  never  spoke  to  you  but 
once  before  in  my  life,  but  I  made  up  my  mind 
then  what  kind  of  a  man  you  was.  Maybe  you 
don't  remember  it,  Judge,  but  two  years  ago 
this  comin'  December  that  there  Law  and 
Order  League  fixed  up  to  run  me  out  of  this 
town.  They  didn't  succeed,  but  they  did 
have  me  indicted  by  the  Grand  Jury,  and 
I  come  up  before  you  and  pleaded  guilty 
— they  had  the  evidence  on  me  all  right. 
You  fined  me,  you  fined  me  the  limit,  and 
I  guess  if  I  hadn't  'a'  had  the  money  to 
pay  the  fine  I'd  'a'  gone  to  jail.  But  the 
main  point  with  me  was  that  you  treated  me 
like  a  lady. 

"I  know  what  I  am  good  and  well,  but  I  don't 
like  to  have  somebody  always  throwin'  it  up  to 
me.  I've  got  f  eelin's  the  same  as  anybody  else  has. 
You  made  that  little  deputy  sheriff  quit  shovin' 
me  round  and  you  called  me  Mizzis  Cramp  to 
my  face,  right  out  in  court.  I've  been  Old 
Mallie  Cramp  to  everybody  in  this  town  so  long 
I'd  mighty  near  forgot  I  ever  had  a  handle  on 
my  name,  until  you  reminded  me  of  it.  You  was 
polite  to  me  and  decent  to  me,  and  you  acted 
like  you  was  sorry  to  see  a  white  woman  fetched 
up  in  court,  even  if  you  didn't  say  it  right  out. 
I  ain't  forgot  that.  I  ain't  ever  goin'  to  forget  it. 
And  awhile  ago,  when  I  was  all  beat  out  and  dis 
couraged,  I  said  to  myself  that  if  there  was  one 
man  left  in  this  town  who  could  maybe  help  me 
to  keep  my  promise  to  that  dead  girl,  Judge  Wil- 
[23] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


liam  Pitman  Priest  was  the  man.  That's  why 
I'm  here." 

"I'm  sorry,  ma'am,  sorry  fur  you  and  sorry 
fur  that  dead  child,"  said  Judge  Priest  slowly. 
"I  wish  I  could  help  you.  I  wish  I  knew  how  to 
advise  you.  But  I  reckin  those  gentlemen  were 
right  in  whut  they  said  to  you  to-day.  I  reckin 
probably  their  elders  would  object  to  them 
openin'  up  their  churches,  under  the  circum 
stances.  And  I'm  mightily  afraid  I  ain't  got  any 
influence  I  could  bring  to  bear  in  any  quarter. 
Did  you  go  to  Father  Minor?  He's  a  good  friend 
of  mine;  we  was  soldiers  together  in  the  war — 
him  and  me.  Mebbe 

"I  thought  of  him,"  said  the  woman  hope 
lessly;  "but  you  see,  Judge,  Viola  didn't  belong 
to  his  church.  She  was  raised  a  Protestant — 
she  told  me  so.  I  guess  he  couldn't  do  noth- 


inV 


"Ah-hah,  I  see,"  said  the  judge,  and  in  his 
perplexity  he  bent  his  head  and  rubbed  his 
broad  expanse  of  pink  bald  brow  fretfully,  as 
though  to  stimulate  thought  within  by  friction 
without.  His  left  hand  fell  into  the  litter  of 
documents  upon  his  desk.  Absently  his  fingers 
shuffled  them  back  and  forth  under  his  eyes. 
He  straightened  himself  alertly. 

"Was  it  stated — was  it  specified  that  a 
preacher  must  hold  the  funeral  service  over  that 
dead  girl?"  he  inquired. 

The  woman  caught  eagerly  at  the  inflection 
that  had  come  into  his  voice. 
[24] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered;  "all  she  said  was 
that  it  must  be  in  a  church  and  with  some  flowers 
and  some  music.  But  I  never  heard  of  anybody 
preachin'  a  regular  sermon  without  it  was  a 
regular  preacher.  Did  you  ever,  Judge?"  Doubt 
and  renewed  disappointment  battered  at  her 
just-born  hopes. 

"I  reckin  mebbe  there  have  been  extry ordi 
nary  occasions  where  an  amateur  stepped  in 
and  done  the  best  he  could,"  said  the  judge. 
"Mebbe  some  folks  here  on  earth  couldn't  ex 
cuse  sech  presumption  as  that,  but  I  reckin 
they'd  understand  how  it  was  up  yonder." 

He  stood  up,  facing  her,  and  spoke  as  one 
making  a  solemn  promise: 

"Ma'am,  you  needn't  worry  yourself  any 
longer.  You  kin  go  on  back  to  your  home. 
That  dead  child  is  goin'  to  have  whut  she  asked 
for.  I  give  you  my  word  on  it." 

She  strove  to  put  a  question,  but  he  kept  on: 

"I  ain't  prepared  to  give  you  the  full  details 
yit.  You  see  I  don't  know  myself  jest  exactly 
whut  they'll  be.  But  inside  of  an  hour  from  now 
I'll  be  seein'  Jansen  and  he'll  notify  you  in 
regards  to  the  hour  and  the  place  and  the  rest 
of  it.  Kin  you  rest  satisfied  with  that?" 

She  nodded,  trying  to  utter  words  and  not 
succeeding.  Emotion  shook  her  gross  shape 
until  the  big  gold  bands  on  her  arms  jangled 
together. 

"So,  ef  you'll  kindly  excuse  me,  I've  got  quite 
a  number  of  things  to  do  betwixt  now  and 
[25] 


\ 

OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 

suppertime.  I  kind  of  figger  I'm  goin'  to  be 
right  busy." 

He  stepped  to  the  threshold  and  called  out 
down  the  hallway,  which  by  now  was  a  long, 
dim  tunnel  of  thickening  shadows. 

"Jeff,  oh  Jeff,  where  are  you,  boy?" 

"Comin',  Jedge." 

The  speaker  emerged  from  the  gloom  that 
was  only  a  few  shades  darker  than  himself. 

"Jeff,"  bade  his  master,  "I  want  you  to  show 
this  lady  the  way  out — it's  black  as  pitch  in 
that  there  hall.  And,  Jeff,  listen  here!  When 
you've  done  that  I  want  you  to  go  and  find  the 
sheriff  fur  me.  Ef  he's  left  his  office — and  I 
s'pose  he  has  by  now — you  go  on  out  to  his 
house,  or  wherever  he  is,  and  find  him  and  tell 
him  I  want  to  see  him  here  right  away." 

He  swung  his  ponderous  old  body  about  and 
bowed  with  a  homely  courtesy: 

"And  now  I  bid  you  good  night,  ma'am." 

At  the  cross  sill  of  the  door  she  halted: 

"Judge — about  gettin'  somebody  to  carry  the 
coffin  in  and  out — did  you  think  about  that? 
She  was  such  a  little  thing — she  won't  be  very 
heavy — but  still,  at  that,  I  don't  know  anybody 
— any  men — that  would  be  willin' 

"Ma'am,"  said  Judge  Priest  gravely,  "ef  I 
was  you  I  wouldn't  worry  about  who  the  pall 
bearers  will  be.  I  reckin  the  Lord  will  provide. 
I've  took  notice  that  He  always  does  ef  you'll 
only  meet  Him  halfway." 

For  a  fact  the  judge  was  a  busy  man  during 
[26] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


the  hour  which  followed  upon  all  this,  the  hour 
between  twilight  and  night.  Over  the  telephone 
he  first  called  up  M.  Jansen,  our  leading  under 
taker;  indeed  at  that  time  our  only  one,  excusing 
the  coloured  undertaker  on  Locust  Street.  He 
had  converse  at  length  with  M.  Jansen.  Then 
he  called  up  Doctor  Lake,  a  most  dependable 
person  in  sickness,  and  when  you  were  in  good 
health  too.  Then  last  of  all  he  called  up  a  cer 
tain  widow  who  lived  in  those  days,  Mrs.  Ma 
tilda  Weeks  by  name;  and  this  lady  was  what  is 
commonly  called  a  character.  In  her  case  the 
title  was  just  and  justified.  Of  character  she 
had  more  than  almost  anybody  I  ever  knew. 

Mrs.  Weeks  didn't  observe  precedents.  She 
made  them.  She  cared  so  little  for  following 
after  public  opinion  that  public  opinion  usually 
followed  after  her — when  it  had  recovered  from 
the  shock  and  reorganised  itself.  There  were 
two  sides  to  her  tongue:  for  some  a  sharp  and 
acid  side,  and  then  again  for  some  a  sweet  and 
gentle  side — and  mainly  these  last  were  the 
weak  and  the  erring  and  the  shiftless,  those 
underfoot  and  trodden  down.  Moving  through 
this  life  in  a  calm,  deliberative,  determined  way, 
always  along  paths  of  her  making  and  her  choos 
ing,  obeying  only  the  beck  of  her  own  mind, 
doing  good  where  she  might,  with  a  perfect 
disregard  for  what  the  truly  good  might  think 
about  it,  Mrs.  Weeks  was  daily  guilty  of  acts 
that  scandalised  all  proper  people.  But  the 
improper  ones  worshipped  the  ground  her  feet 
[27] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


touched  as  she  walked.  She  was  much  like  that 
disciple  of  Joppa  named  Tabitha,  which  by 
interpretation  is  called  Dorcas,  of  whom  it  is 
written  that  she  was  full  of  good  works  and 
almsdeeds  which  she  did.  Yes,  you  might  safely 
call  Mrs.  Weeks  a  character. 

With  her,  back  and  forth  across  the  telephone 
wire,  Judge  Priest  had  extended  speech.  Then 
he  hung  up  the  receiver  and  went  home  alone  to 
a  late  and  badly  burnt  supper.  Aunt  Dilsey 
Turner,  the  titular  goddess  of  his  kitchen,  was 
a  queen  cook  among  cooks,  but  she  could  keep 
victuals  hot  without  scorching  them  for  just  so 
long  and  no  longer.  She  took  pains  to  say  as 
much,  standing  in  the  dining-room  door  with 
her  knuckles  on  her  hips.  But  the  judge  didn't 
pay  much  attention  to  Aunt  Dilsey 's  vigorous 
remarks.  He  had  other  things  on  his  mind. 

Down  our  way  this  present  generation  has 
seen  a  good  many  conspicuous  and  prominent 
funerals.  Until  very  recently  we  rather  special 
ised  in  funerals.  Before  moving  pictures  sprang 
up  so  numerously  funerals  provided  decorous 
and  melancholy  divertisement  for  many  whose 
lives,  otherwise,  were  rather  aridly  devoid  of 
sources  of  inexpensive  excitement.  Among  us 
were  persons — old  Mrs.  Whitridge  was  a  typical 
example — who  hadn't  missed  a  funeral  of  any 
consequence  for  years  and  years  back.  Let 
some  one  else  provide  the  remains,  and  they 
would  assemble  in  such  number  as  to  furnish  a 
gathering,  satisfying  in  its  size  and  solemn  in  its 
[28] 


THE     LORD     PROVIDES 


impress! veness.  They  took  the  run  of  funerals 
as  they  came.  But  there  were  some  funerals 
which,  having  taken  place,  stood  forth  in  the 
public  estimation  forever  after  as  events  to  be 
remembered.  They  were  mortuary  milestones 
on  the  highway  of  community  life. 

For  instance,  those  who  were  of  suitable  age 
to  attend  it  are  never  going  to  forget  the  burial 
that  the  town  gave  lazy,  loud-mouthed  Lute 
Montjoy,  he  being  the  negro  fireman  on  the 
ferryboat  who  jumped  into  the  river  that  time, 
aiming  to  save  the  small  child  of  a  Hungarian 
immigrant  family  bound  for  somewhere  up  in 
the  Cumberland  on  the  steamer  Goldenrod. 
The  baby  ran  across  the  boiler  deck  and  went 
overboard,  and  the  mother  screamed,  and  Lute 
saw  what  had  happened  and  he  jumped.  He 
was  a  good  swimmer  all  right,  and  in  half  a 
dozen  strokes  he  reached  the  strangling  mite  in 
the  water;  but  then  the  current  caught  him — the 
June  rise  was  on — and  sucked  him  downstream 
into  the  narrow,  swirling  place  between  the 
steamboat's  hull  and  the  outside  of  the  upper 
wharf  boat,  and  he  went  under  and  stayed 
under. 

Next  morning  when  the  dragnets  caught  and 
brought  him  up,  one  of  his  stiffened  black  arms 
still  encircled  the  body  of  the  white  child,  hi  a 
grip  that  could  hardly  be  loosened.  White  and 
black,  everybody  turned  out  to  bury  Lute  Mont- 
joy.  In  the  services  at  the  church  two  of  the 
leading  clergymen  assisted,  turn  and  turn  about; 
[29] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


and  at  the  graveside  Colonel  Horatio  Farrell, 
dean  of  the  local  bar  and  the  champion  orator  of 
seven  counties,  delivered  an  hour-long  oration, 
calling  Lute  by  such  names  as  Lute,  lying  there 
cased  in  mahogany  with  silver  trimmings,  had 
never  heard  applied  to  him  while  he  lived.  Pop 
ular  subscription  provided  the  fund  that  paid 
for  the  stone  to  mark  his  grave  and  to  perpetuate 
the  memory  of  his  deed.  You  can  see  the  shaft 
to  this  day.  It  rises  white  and  high  among  the 
trees  in  Elm  Grove  Cemetery,  and  the  word 
Hero  is  cut  deep  in  its  marble  face. 

Then  there  was  the  funeral  of  old  Mr.  Simon 
Leatheritt,  mightiest  among  local  financiers. 
That,  indeed,  was  a  funeral  to  be  cherished  in 
the  cranial  memory  casket  of  any  person  so 
favoured  by  fortune  as  to  have  been  present;  a 
funeral  that  was  felt  to  be  a  credit  alike  to 
deceased  and  to  bereaved;  a  funeral  that  by  its 
grandeur  would  surely  have  impressed  the  late 
and,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  lamented  Leather 
itt,  even  though  its  cost  would  have  panged  him; 
in  short,  an  epoch-making  and  an  era-breeding 
funeral. 

In  the  course  of  a  long  married  career  this  was 
the  widow's  first  opportunity  to  cut  loose  and 
spend  money  without  having  to  account  for  it 
by  dollar,  by  dime  and  by  cent  to  a  higher 
authority,  and  she  certainly  did  cut  loose,  spar 
ing  absolutely  no  pains  in  the  effort  to  do  her 
recent  husband  honour.  At  a  cost  calculated  as 
running  into  three  figures  for  that  one  item 
[30] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 

alone,  she  imported  the  prize  male  tenor  of  a  St. 
Louis  cathedral  choir  to  enrich  the  proceedings 
with  his  glowing  measures.  This  person,  who 
was  a  person  with  eyes  too  large  for  a  man  and  a 
mouth  too  small,  rendered  Abide  With  Me  in  a 
fashion  so  magnificent  that  the  words  were 
entirely  indistinguishable  and  could  not  be  fol 
lowed  on  account  of  the  genius'  fashion  of  sing 
ing  them. 

By  express,  floral  offerings  came  from  as  far 
away  as  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  New  Orleans, 
Louisiana.  One  creation,  sent  on  from  a  far 
distance,  which  displayed  a  stuffed  white  dove 
hovering,  with  the  aid  of  wires,  in  the  arc  of  a 
green  trellis  above  a  bank  of  white  tuberoses, 
attracted  much  favourable  comment.  A  sub 
dued  murmur  of  admiration,  travelling  onward 
from  pew  to  pew,  followed  after  it  as  the  design 
was  borne  up  the  centre  aisle  to  the  chancel  rail. 
As  for  broken  columns  and  flower  pillows  with 
appropriately  regretful  remarks  let  into  them  in 
purple  immortelle  letterings,  and  gates  ajar — 
why,  they  were  evident  in  a  profusion  almost 
past  individual  recording. 

When  the  officiating  minister,  reading  the 
burial  service,  got  as  far  as  "Dust  to  dust," 
Ashby  Corwin,  who  sat  at  the  back  of  the 
church,  bent  over  and  whispered  in  the  ear  of 
his  nearest  neighbour:  "Talk  about  your  ruling 
passions !  If  that's  not  old  Uncle  Sime  all  over — 
still  grabbing  for  the  dust!"  As  a  rule,  repeti 
tion  of  this  sally  about  town  was  greeted  with 
[31] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


the  deep  hush  of  silent  reproof.  Our  dead 
money-monarch's  memory  was  draped  with  the 
sanctity  of  wealth.  Besides,  Ash  Corwin,  as 
many  promptly  took  pains  to  point  out,  was  a 
person  of  no  consequence  whatsoever,  financial 
or  otherwise.  Mrs.  Whitridge's  viewpoint,  as 
voiced  by  her  in  the  months  that  followed,  was 
the  commoner  one.  This  is  Mrs.  Whitridge 
speaking : 

"I've  been  going  to  funerals  steady  ever  since 
I  was  a  child.  I  presume  I've  helped  comfort 
more  beref  ts  by  my  presence  and  seen  more  dear 
departeds  fittin'ly  laid  away  than  any  person  in 
this  whole  city.  But  if  you're  asking  me,  I 
must  say  Mr.  Leatheritt's  was  the  most  fashion 
able  funeral  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  hope  to  see. 
Everything  that  lavishness  could  do  was  done 
there,  and  all  in  such  lovely  taste,  too!  Why, 
it  had  style  written  all  over  it,  especially  the 
internment." 

Oh,  we've  had  funerals  and  funerals  down 
our  way.  But  the  funeral  that  took  place  on  an 
October  day  that  I  have  in  mind  still  will  be 
talked  about  long  after  Banker  Leatheritt  and 
the  estate  he  reluctantly  left  behind  him  are 
but  dim  recollections.  It  came  as  a  surprise  to 
most  people,  for  in  the  daily  papers  of  that 
morning  no  customary  black  -  bordered  an 
nouncement  had  appeared.  Others  had  heard  of 
it  by  word  of  mouth.  In  dubious  quarters,  and 
in  some  quarters  not  quite  so  dubious,  the  news 
had  travelled,  although  details  in  advance  of  the 
[32] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


event  were  only  to  be  guessed  at.  Anyhow,  the 
reading  and  talking  public  knew  this  much: 
That  a  girl,  calling  herself  Viola  St.  Claire  and 
aged  nineteen,  had  died.  It  was  an  accepted 
fact,  naturally,  that  even  the  likes  of  her  must 
be  laid  away  after  some  fashion  or  other.  If  she 
were  put  under  ground  by  stealth,  clandestinely 
as  it  were,  so  much  the  better  for  the  atmosphere 
of  civic  morality.  That  I  am  sure  would  have 
been  disclosed  as  the  opinion  of  a  majority,  had 
there  been  inquiry  among  those  who  were  pre 
sumed  to  have  and  who  admitted  they  had  the 
best  interests  of  the  community  at  heart. 

So  you  see  a  great  many  people  were  entirely 
unprepared  against  the  coming  of  the  pitiably 
short  procession  that  at  eleven  o'clock,  or  there 
about,  turned  out  of  the  little  street  running 
down  back  of  the  freight  depot  into  Franklin 
Street,  which  was  one  of  our  main  thoroughfares. 
First  came  the  hearse,  drawn  by  M.  Jansen's 
pair  of  dappled  white  horses  and  driven  by  M. 
Jansen  himself,  he  wearing  his  official  high  hat 
and  the  span  having  black  plumes  in  their  head 
stalls,  thus  betokening  a  burial  ceremony  of  the 
top  cost.  Likewise  the  hearse  was  M.  Jansen's 
best  hearse — not  his  third  best,  nor  yet  his  sec 
ond  best,  but  the  splendid  crystal-walled  one 
that  he  ordered  in  the  Eastern  market  after  the 
relict  of  Banker  Leatheritt  settled  the  bill. 

The  coffin,  showing  through  the  glass  sides, 
was  of  white  cloth  and  it  looked  very  small, 
almost  like  a  coffin  for  a  child.  However,  it 

[33] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


may  have  looked  so  because  there  was  little 
of  its  shape  to  be  seen.  It  was  covered  and  piled 
and  banked  up  with  flowers,  and  these  flowers, 
strange  to  say,  were  not  done  into  shapes  of 
gates  as  wing;  nor  into  shafts  with  their  tops 
gone;  nor  into  flat,  stiff  pillows  of  waxy- white 
tuberoses,  pale  and  cold  as  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
These  were  such  flowers  as,  in  our  kindly  cli 
mate,  grew  out  of  doors  until  well  on  into  No 
vember:  late  roses  and  early  chrysanthemums, 
marigolds  and  gladioluses,  and  such.  They  lay 
there  loosely,  with  their  stems  upon  them,  just 
as  Mrs.  Weeks  had  sheared  them,  denuding 
every  plant  and  shrub  and  bush  that  grew  in  her 
garden,  so  a  girl  whom  Mrs.  Weeks  had  never 
seen  might  go  to  her  grave  with  an  abundance 
of  the  blossoms  she  had  coveted  about  her. 

Behind  the  hearse  came  a  closed  coach.  We 
used  to  call  them  coaches  when  they  figured  in 
funerals,  carriages  when  used  for  lodge  turnouts, 
and  plain  hacks  when  they  met  the  trains  and 
boats.  In  the  coach  rode  four  women.  The 
world  at  large  had  a  way  of  calling  them  painted 
women;  but  this  day  their  faces  were  not  painted 
nor  were  they  garishly  clad.  For  the  time  they 
were  merely  women — neither  painted  women 
nor  fallen  women— -but  just  women. 

And  that  was  nearly  all,  but  not  quite.  At 
one  side  of  the  hearse,  opposite  the  slowly  turn 
ing  front  wheels,  trudged  Judge  Priest,  carrying 
in  the  crook  of  one  bent  arm  a  book.  It  wouldn't 
be  a  law  book,  for  they  commonly  are  large 
[34] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 

books,  bound  in  buff  leather,  and  this  book  was 
small  and  flat  and  black  in  colour.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  hearse,  with  head  very  erect  and  eyes 
fixed  straight  ahead  and  Sunday's  best  coat 
buttoned  tightly  about  his  sparse  frame,  walked 
another  old  man,  Doctor  Lake. 

And  that  was  all.  At  least  that  was  all  at 
first.  But  as  the  procession — if  you  could  call 
it  that — swung  into  Franklin  Street  it  passed 
by  The  Blue  Jug  Saloon  and  Short  Order  Res 
taurant.  In  the  doorway  here  lounged  Perry 
Broadus,  who  drank.  The  night  before  had  been 
a  hard  night  upon  Perry  Broadus,  whose  nights 
always  were  hard,  and  it  promised  to  be  a  hard 
day.  He  shivered  at  the  touch  of  the  clear, 
crisp  air  upon  his  flushed  cheek  and  slanted  for 
support  against  a  handy  doorpost  of  the  Blue 
Jug.  The  hearse  turned  the  corner,  and  he 
stared  at  it  a  moment  and  understood.  He 
straightened  his  slouched  shoulders,  and  the 
fog  left  his  eyes  and  the  fumes  of  staling  alcohol 
quit  his  brain.  He  pulled  off  his  hat,  twisted  his 
wreck  of  a  necktie  straight  with  a  hand  that 
shook  and,  cold  sober,  he  ran  out  and  caught 
step  behind  Judge  Priest.  Referring  to  pall 
bearers,  Judge  Priest  had  said  the  Lord  would 
provide.  But  Perry  Broadus  provided  himself. 

I  forget  now  who  the  next  volunteer  was,  but 
I  think  possibly  it  was  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby. 
Without  waiting  to  analyse  the  emotions  that 
possessed  him  in  the  first  instant  of  realisation, 
the  sergeant  went  hurrying  into  the  road  to  fall 
[35] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


in,  and  never  thereafter  had  cause  to  rue  his 
impulse,  his  one  regret  being  that  he  had  no 
warning,  else  he  would  have  slipped  on  his  old, 
grey  uniform  coat  that  he  reserved  for  high 
occasions.  I  know  that  Mr.  Napoleon  B. 
Crump,  who  was  active  in  church  and  charities, 
broke  away  from  two  ladies  who  were  discussing 
parish  affairs  with  him  upon  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  his  wholesale  grocery,  and  with  never  a 
word  of  apology  to  them  slipped  into  line,  with 
Doctor  Lake  for  his  file  leader.  A  moment 
later,  hearing  footfalls  at  his  back,  Mr.  Crump 
looked  over  his  shoulder.  Beck  Giltner,  a  man 
whom  Mr.  Crump  had  twice  tried  to  have  driven 
out  of  town  and  whom  he  yet  hoped  to  see 
driven  out  of  town,  was  following,  two  paces 
behind  him. 

I  know  that  Mr.  Joe  Plumm  came,  shirt- 
sleeved,  out  of  his  cooper  shop  and  sought  a 
place  with  the  others.  I  know  that  Major  Fair- 
leigh,  who  had  been  standing  idly  at  the  front 
window  of  his  law  office,  emerged  therefrom  in 
such  haste  he  forgot  to  bring  his  hat  with  him. 
Almost  immediately  the  -Major  became  aware 
that  he  was  sandwiched  in  between  the  fat  chief 
of  the  paid  fire  department  and  worthless  Tip 
Murphy,  who  hadn't  been  out  of  the  peniten 
tiary  a  month.  I  know  that  old  Peter  J.  Gallo 
way,  the  lame  Irish  blacksmith,  wore  his  leather 
apron  as  he  limped  along,  bobbing  up  on  his 
good  leg  and  down  on  his  short  bent  one. 

I  know  that  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  brought 
[36] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 

with  him  four  of  the  clerks  of  Felsburg  Brothers' 
Oak  Hall  Clothing  Emporium.  One  of  them 
left  a  customer,  behind,  too,  or  possibly  the 
customer  also  came.  On  second  thought,  I 
believe  he  did.  I  know  that  some  men  stood 
along  the  curbstones  and  stared  and  that  other 
men,  having  first  bared  their  heads,  broke  away 
to  tail  in  at  the  end  of  the  doubled  lines  of 
marching  figures.  And  I  know  that  of  those  who 
did  this  there  were  more  than  of  those  who 
merely  stood  and  stared.  The  padding  of  shoe 
soles  upon  the  gravel  of  the  street  became  a 
steadily  increasing,  steadily  rising  thump- 
thump-thump;  the  rhythm  of  it  rose  above  the 
creak  and  the  clatter  of  the  hearse  wheels  and 
the  hoofs  of  the  horses. 

Lengthened  and  strengthened  every  few  feet 
and  every  few  yards  by  the  addition  of  new 
recruits,  the  procession  kept  on.  It  trailed  past 
shops  and  stores  and  jobbers'  houses.  It  trav 
elled  by  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  by  Fraternity 
Hall.  It  threaded  its  way  between  rows  of 
residences.  It  must  have  been  two  hundred 
strong  when  the  hearse  horses  came  abreast  of 
that  stately  new  edifice,  with  its  fine  memorial 
windows  and  its  tall  twin  spires,  which  the 
darkies  called  the  Big  Rock  Church.  They 
didn't  stop  here  though.  Neither  did  they  stop 
at  the  old  ivy-covered  church  farther  along 
nor  at  the  little  red-brick  church  in  the  middle 
of  the  next  block. 

The  procession  kept  on.  Growing  and  still 
[37] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


growing,  it  kept  on.  By  now  you  might  have 
counted  in  its  ranks  fit  representatives  of  every 
grade  and  class,  every  cult  and  every  creed  to 
be  found  in  the  male  population  of  our  town. 
Old  men  and  young  men  marched;  bachelors 
and  heads  of  families;  rich  men  and  poor;  men 
who  made  public  sentiment  and  men  who  defied 
it;  strict  churchgoers  and  avowed  sceptics;  men 
called  good  and  men  called  bad.  You  might 
have  ticked  off  almost  any  kind  of  man  in  that 
line.  Possibly  the  Pharisees  were  missing  and 
the  Scribes  were  served  only  in  the  person  of  the 
editor  of  the  Daily  Evening  News,  who  appeared 
well  up  toward  the  front  of  one  of  the  files,  with 
a  forgotten  cedar  lead  pencil  riding  in  the  crotch 
of  his  right  ear.  But  assuredly  the  Publican  was 
there  and  the  Sinner. 

Heralded  by  the  sound  of  its  own  thumping 
tread  and  leaving  in  its  wake  a  stupefaction  of 
astonishment,  the  procession  kept  straight  on 
down  Franklin  Street,  through  the  clear  October 
sunshine  and  under  the  sentinel  maples,  which 
sifted  down  gentle  showers  of  red  and  yellow 
leaves  upon  it.  It  kept  on  until  it  reached  the 
very  foot  of  the  street.  There  it  swung  off  at 
right  angles  into  a  dingy,  ill-kempt  little  street 
that  coursed  crookedly  along  the  water  front, 
with  poor  houses  rising  upon  one  side  and  the 
raw  mud  banks  of  the  river  falling  steeply  away 
upon  the  other. 

It  followed  this  street  until  the  head  of  it 
came  opposite  a  little  squat  box-and-barn  of  a 
[38] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 

structure,  built  out  of  up-and-down  planking; 
unpainted,  too,  with  a  slatted  belfry,  like  an 
overgrown  chicken  coop,  perched  midway  of  the 
peak  of  its  steeply  pitched  tin  roof.  Now  this 
structure,  as  all  knew  who  remembered  the  his 
tory  of  contemporary  litigation  as  recorded  in 
the  local  prints,  was  the  True  Believers'  Afro- 
American  Church  of  Zion,  sometimes  termed  in 
derision  Possum  Trot,  being  until  recently  the 
place  of  worship  of  that  newest  and  most  turbu 
lent  of  local  negro  sects,  but  now  closed  on  an 
injunction  secured  by  one  of  the  warring  factions 
within  its  membership  and  temporarily  lodged 
in  the  custody  of  the  circuit  court  and  in  the 
hands  of  that  court's  servant,  the  high  sheriff, 
pending  ultimate  determination  of  the  issue  by 
his  honour,  the  circuit  judge.  Technically  it  was 
still  closed ;  legally  and  officially  still  in  the  firm 
grasp  of  Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong.  Actually  and 
physically  it  was  at  this  moment  open — wide 
open.  The  double  doors  were  drawn  back,  the 
windows  shone  clean,  and  at  the  threshold  of 
the  swept  and  garnished  interior  stood  Judge 
Priest's  Jeff,  with  his  broom  in  his  hand  and  his 
mop  and  bucket  at  his  side.  Jeff  had  concluded 
his  share  of  the  labours  barely  in  time. 

As  M.  Jansen  steered  his  dappled  span  close 
up  alongside  the  pavement  and  brought  them 
to  a  standstill,  Judge  Priest  looked  back  and 
with  what  he  saw  was  well  content.  He  knew 
that  morbid  curiosity  might  account  for  the 
presence  of  some  among  this  multitude  who  had 
[39] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


come  following  after  him,  but  not  for  all,  and 
perhaps  not  for  very  many.  He  nodded  to  him 
self  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  amply  satisfied  by 
the  results  of  an  accomplished  experiment. 

For  the  bearers  of  the  dead  he  selected  offhand 
the  eight  men  who  had  marched  nearest  to  him. 
As  they  lifted  the  coffin  out  from  the  hearse  it 
befell  that  our  most  honoured  physician  should 
have  for  his  opposite  our  most  consistent  drunk 
ard,  and  that  Mr.  Crump,  who  walked  in 
straight  and  narrow  paths,  should  rub  elbows 
with  Beck  Giltner,  whom  upon  any  day  in  the 
year,  save  only  this  day,  Mr.  Crump  would  have 
rejoiced  to  see  harried  with  hounds  beyond  the 
corporate  limits. 

Up  the  creaking  steps  and  in  between  the 
lolling  door-halves  the  chosen  eight  bore  the 
dead  girl,  and  right  reverently  they  rested  their 
burden  on  board  trestles  at  the  foot  of  the  little 
box-pulpit,  where  shafts  of  sunshine,  filtering 
through  one  of  the  small  side  windows,  stencilled 
a  checkered  pattern  of  golden  squares  upon  the 
white  velvet  box  with  its  silver  handles  and 
its  silver  name  plate.  Behind  the  eight  came 
others,  bringing  the  flowers.  It  must  have  been 
years,  I  imagine,  since  the  soiled  hands  of  some 
of  these  had  touched  such  gracious  things  as 
flowers,  yet  it  was  to  transpire  that  none  among 
them  needed  the  help  of  any  defter  fingers. 
Upon  the  coffin  and  alongside  it  they  laid  down 
their  arm  loads,  so  that  once  more  the  narrow 
white  box  was  almost  covered  under  bloom  and 
[40] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 

leaf;  and  then  the  yellow  pencillings  of  sunlight 
made  greater  glory  there  than  ever. 

When  the  crowd  was  in  and  seated — all  of  it 
that  could  get  in  and  get  seated — a  tall,  white- 
haired  woman  in  a  plain  black  frock  came 
silently  and  swiftly  through  a  door  at  the  back 
and  sat  herself  down  upon  a  red  plush  stool 
before  a  golden-oak  melodeon.  Stool  and  melo- 
deon  being  both  the  property  of  the  fractious 
True  Believers,  neglect  and  poor  usage  had 
wrought  most  grievously  with  the  two  of  them. 
The  stool  stood  shakily  upon  its  infirm  legs  and 
within  the  melodeon  the  works  were  skewed  and 
jangled.  But  Mrs.  Matilda  Weeks'  finger  ends 
fell  with  such  sanctifying  gentleness  upon  the 
warped  keys,  and  as  she  sang  her  sweet  soprano 
rose  so  clearly  and  yet  so  softly,  filling  this  place 
whose  walls  so  often  had  resounded  to  the  lusty 
hallelujahs  of  shouting  black  converts,  that  to 
those  who  listened  now  it  seemed  almost  as 
though  a  Saint  Cecelia  had  descended  from  on 
high  to  make  this  music.  Mrs.  Weeks  sang  a 
song  that  she  had  sung  many  a  time  before — for 
ailing  paupers  at  the  almshouse,  for  prisoners  at 
the  county  jail,  for  the  motley  congregations 
that  flocked  to  Sunday  afternoon  services  in  the 
little  mission  at  the  old  Acme  rink.  And  the 
name  of  the  song  was  Rock  of  Ages. 

She  finished  singing.     Judge  Priest  got  up 

from  a  front  pew  where  he  had  been  sitting  and 

went  and  stood  alongside  the  flower-piled  coffin, 

with  his  back  to  the  little  yellow-pine  pulpit  and 

[41] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


his  prayer  book  in  his  hands,  a  homely,  ungrace 
ful  figure,  facing  an  assemblage  that  packed  the 
darky  meeting  house  until  it  could  hold  no  more. 
In  sight  there  were  just  five  women:  the  good 
woman  at  the  melodeon  and  four  other  women, 
dwellers  beneath  a  sinful  roof,  who  sat  together 
upon  what  the  pastor  of  the  True  Believers 
would  have  called  the  mourners'  bench.  And 
all  the  rest  were  men.  Men  sat,  row  on  row, 
in  the  pews;  men  stood  in  the  single  narrow 
aisle  and  against  the  walls  round  three  sides 
of  the  building;  and  men  appeared  at  the 
doorway  and  on  beyond  the  doorway,  upon 
the  porch  and  the  steps. 

I  deem  it  to  have  been  characteristic  of  the 
old  judge  that  he  made  no  explanation  for  his 
presence  before  them  and  no  apology  for  his 
assumption  of  a  role  so  unusual.  He  opened  his 
black-bound  volume  at  a  place  where  his  plump 
forefinger  had  been  thrust  between  the  leaves  to 
mark  the  place  for  him,  and  in  his  high,  thin 
voice  he  read  through  the  service  for  the  dead, 
with  its  promise  of  the  divine  forgiveness.  When 
he  had  reached  the  end  of  it  he  put  the  book 
aside,  and  spoke  to  them  in  the  fair  and  gram 
matical  English  that  usually  he  reserved  for  his 
utterances  from  the  bench  in  open  court: 

"Our  sister  who  lies  here  asked  with  almost 
her  last  conscious  breath  that  at  her  funeral  a 
sermon  should  be  preached.  Upon  me,  who 
never  before  attempted  such  an  undertaking, 
devolves  the  privilege  of  speaking  a  few  words 
[42] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


above  her.  I  had  thought  to  take  for  my  text 
the  words:  'He  that  is  without  sin  among  you, 
let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her.' 

"But  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  changed 
it  only  a  little  while  ago.  For  I  recalled  that 
once  on  a  time  the  Master  said:  'Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  Me,  and  forbid  them  not: 
for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.'  And  I 
believe,  in  the  scheme  of  everlasting  mercy  and 
everlasting  pity,  that  before  the  eyes  of  our 
common  Creator  we  are  all  of  us  as  little  children 
whose  feet  stumble  in  the  dark.  So  I  shall  take 
that  saying  of  the  Saviour  for  my  text." 

Perhaps  it  would  be  unjust  to  those  whose 
business  is  the  preaching  of  sermons  to  call  this 
a  sermon.  I,  for  one,  never  heard  any  other 
sermon  in  any  other  church  that  did  not  last 
longer  than  five  minutes.  And  certainly  Judge 
Priest,  having  made  his  beginning,  did  not  speak 
for  more  than  five  minutes;  the  caressing  fingers 
of  the  sunlight  had  not  perceptibly  shifted  upon 
the  flower-strewn  coffin  top  when  he  finished 
what  he  had  to  say  and  stood  with  his  head 
bowed.  After  that,  except  for  a  rustle  of  close- 
packed  body  and  a  clearing  of  men's  huskened 
throats,  there  was  silence  for  a  little  time. 

Then  Judge  Priest's  eyes  looked  about  him 
and  three  pews  away  he  saw  Ashby  Corwin.  It 
may  have  been  he  remembered  that  as  a  young 
man  Ashby  Corwin  had  been  destined  for  holy 
orders  until  another  thing — some  said  it  was  a 
woman  and  some  said  it  was  whisky,  and  some 
[48] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


said  it  was  first  the  woman  and  then  the  whisky 
— came  into  his  life  and  wrecked  it  so  that  until 
the  end  of  his  days  Ashby  Corwin  trod  the  rocky 
downhill  road  of  the  profligate  and  the  waster. 
Or  it  may  have  been  the  look  he  read  upon  the 
face  of  the  other  that  moved  Judge  Priest  to 
say: 

"I  will  ask  Mr.  Corwin  to  pray." 
At  that  Ashby  Corwin  stood  up  in  his  place 
and  threw  back  his  prematurely  whitened  head, 
and  he  lifted  his  face  that  was  all  scarified  with 
the  blighting  flames  of  dissipation,  and  he  shut 
his  eyes  that  long  since  had  wearied  of  looking 
upon  a  trivial  world,  and  Ashby  Corwin  prayed. 
There  are  prayers  that  seem  to  circle  round  and 
round  in  futile  rings,  going  nowhere;  and  then 
again  there  are  prayers  that  are  like  sparks 
struck  off  from  the  wheels  of  the  prophet's 
chariot  of  fire,  coursing  their  way  upward  in 
spiritual  splendour  to  blaze  on  the  sills  of  the 
Judgment  Seat.  This  prayer  was  one  of  those 
prayers. 

After  that  Judge  Priest  bowed  his  head  again 
and  spoke  the  benediction. 

It  turns  out  that  I  was  right  a  while  back 
when  I  predicted  this  chapter  of  this  book 
might  end  with  Judge  Priest  sitting  at  his  desk 
in  his  room  at  the  old  courthouse.  On  the  morn 
ing  of  the  day  following  the  day  of  this  funeral 
he  sat  there,  putting  the  last  words  to  his  deci- 
sion  touching  upon  the  merits  of  the  existing 
[44] 


THE     LORD     PROVIDES 


controversy  in  the  congregation  of  the  True 
Believers'  Afro-American  Church  of  Zion.  The 
door  opened  and  in  walked  Beck  Giltner,  saloon 
keeper,  sure-thing  gambler,  handy-man-with-a- 
gun,  and,  according  to  the  language  of  a  resolu 
tion  unanimously  adopted  at  a  mass  meeting  of 
the  Law  and  Order  League,  force-for-evil. 

Beck  Giltner  was  dressed  in  his  best.  He 
wore  his  wide-brimmed,  black  soft  hat,  with 
its  tall  crown  carefully  dented  in,  north,  east, 
south  and  west;  his  long  black  coat;  his  white 
turn-down  collar;  his  white  lawn  tie;  and  in  the 
bosom  of  his  plaited  shirt  of  fine  white  linen  his 
big  diamond  pin,  that  was  shaped  like  an 
inverted  banjo.  This  was  Beck  Giltner's  attire 
for  the  street  and  for  occasions  of  ceremony. 
Indoors  it  was  the  same,  except  that  sometimes 
he  took  the  coat  off  and  turned  back  his  shirt 
cuffs. 

"Good  mornin',  Beck,"  said  the  judge. 
"Well?" 

"Judge  Priest,"  said  Giltner,  "as  a  rule  I 
don't  come  to  this  courthouse  except  when  I 
have  to  come.  But  to-day  I've  come  to  tell 
you  something.  You  made  a  mistake  yester 
day!" 

"A  mistake,  suh?"  The  judge's  tone  was 
sharp  and  quick. 

"Yes,  suh,  that's  what  you  did,"  returned 
the  tall  gambler.  "I  don't  mean  in  regards  to 
that  funeral  you  held  for  that  dead  girl.  You 
probably  don't  care  what  I  think  one  way  or 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


the  other,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  I  was  strong 
for  that,  all  the  way  through.  But  you  made  a 
mistake  just  the  same,  Judge;  you  didn't  take 
up  a  collection. 

"It  had  been  a  good  many  years  since  I  was 
inside  of  a  church,  until  I  walked  with  you  and 
the  others  to  that  little  nigger  meetin'-house  yes 
terday — forty-odd  years  I  reckon;  not  since  I 
was  a  kid,  anyway.  But  to  the  best  of  my  early 
recollections  they  always  took  a  collection  for 
something  or  other  every  time  I  did  go^  to 
church.  And  yesterday  you  overlooked  that 
part  altogether. 

"So  last  night  I  took  it  on  myself  to  get  up  a 
collection  for  you.  I  started  it  with  a  bill  or  so 
off  my  own  roll.  Then  I  passed  the  hat  round 
at  several  places  where  you  wouldn't  scarcely 
care  to  go  yourself.  And  I  didn't  run  across  a 
single  fellow  that  failed  to  contribute.  Some  of 
'em  don't  move  in  the  best  society,  and  there's 
some  more  of  'em  that  you'd  only  know  of  by 
reputation.  But  every  last  one  of  'em  put  in 
something.  There  was  one  man  that  didn't 
have  only  seven  cents  to  his  name — he  put  that 
in.  So  here  it  is — four  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  dollars  and  forty-two  cents,  accordin'  to 
my  count." 

From  one  pocket  he  fetched  forth  a  rumpled 
packet  of  paper  .money  and  from  the  other  a 
small  cloth  sack,  which  gave  off  metallic  clinking 
sounds.  He  put  them  down  together  on  the 

desk  in  front  of  Judge  Priest. 

[46] 


THE      LORD     PROVIDES 


"I  appreciate  this,  ef  I  am  right  in  my 
assumption  of  the  motives  which  actuated  you 
and  the  purposes  to  which  you  natchally 
assumed  this  here  money  would  be  applied," 
said  Judge  Priest  as  the  other  man  waited  for 
his  response.  "But,  son,  I  can't  take  your 
money.  It  ain't  needed.  Why,  I  wouldn't 
know  whut  to  do  with  it.  There  ain't  no  out- 
standin'  bills  connected  with  that  there  funeral. 
All  the  expense  entailed  was  met — privately. 
So  you  see " 

"Wait  just  a  minute  before  you  say  no!" 
interrupted  Giltner.  "Here's  my  idea  and  it's 
the  idea  of  all  the  others  that  contributed:  We- 
all  want  you  to  take  this  money  and  keep  it — 
keep  it  in  a  safe,  or  in  your  pocket,  or  in  the 
bank  to  your  credit,  or  anywheres  you  please, 
but  just  keep  it.  And  if  any  girl  that's  gone 
wrong  should  die  and  not  have  any  friends  to 
help  bury  her,  they  can  come  to  you  and  get  the 
cash  out  of  this  fund  to  pay  for  puttin'  her  away. 
And  if  any  other  girl  should  want  to  go  back  to 
her  people  and  start  in  all  over  again  and  try  to 
lead  a  better  life,  why  you  can  advance  her 
the  railroad  fare  out  of  that  money  too.  You 
see,  Judge,  we  are  aimin'  to  make  a  kind  of  a 
trust  fund  out  of  it,  with  you  as  the  trustee. 
And  when  the  four  seventy-five  forty-two  is  all 
used  up,  if  you'll  just  let  me  know  I'll  guarantee 
to  rustle  up  a  fresh  bank  roll  so  you'll  always 
have  enough  on  hand  to  meet  the  demands. 

Now  then,  Judge,  will  you  take  it?" 

[47] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Judge  Priest  took  it.  He  stretched  out  and 
scooped  in  currency  and  coin  sack,  using  therefor 
his  left  hand  only.  The  right  was  engaged  in 
reaching  for  Beck  Giltner's  right  hand,  the  pur 
pose  being  to  shake  it. 


[48] 


II 

BLENDING   OF   THE 
PARABLES 


NEARLY  every  week — weather  permit 
ting — the  old   judge  went  to  dinner 
somewhere.    To  a  considerable  extent 
he  kept  up  his  political  fences  going  to 
dinners.    Usually  it  was  of  a  Sunday  that  he 
went. 

By  ten  o'clock  almost  any  fair  Sunday  morn 
ing — spring,  summer  or  early  fall — Judge 
Priest's  Jeff  would  have  the  venerable  side-bar 
buggy  washed  down,  and  would  be  leading  forth 
from  her  stall  the  ancient  white  lady-sheep,  with 
the  unmowed  fetlocks  and  the  intermittent 
mane,  which  the  judge,  from  a  spirit  of 
prideful  affection  and  in  the  face  of  all  visual 
testimony  to  the  contrary,  persisted  in  re 
garding  as  an  authentic  member  of  the  equine 
kingdom. 

Presently,  in  their  proper  combination  and 
alignment,  the  trio  would  be  stationed  at  the 
front  gate,  thus:  Jeff  in  front,  bracing  the  for 
ward  section  of  the  mare-creature;  and  the 

[49] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


buggy  behind,  its  shafts  performing  a  similar 
office  for  the  other  end  of  this  unique  quadruped. 
Down  the  gravelled  walk  that  led  from  the  house, 
under  the  water  maples  and  silver-leaf  poplars, 
which  arched  over  to  make  a  shady  green  tunnel 
of  it,  the  judge  would  come,  immaculate  but 
rumply  in  white  linens.  The  judge's  linens  had 
a  way  of  getting  themselves  all  rumpled  even 
before  he  put  them  on.  You -might  say  they 
were  born  rumpled. 

Beholding  his  waddlesome  approach  out  of 
the  tail  of  her  eye,  the  white  animal  would 
whinny  a  dignified  and  conservative  welcome. 
She  knew  her  owner  almost  as  well  as  he  knew 
her.  Then,  while  Jeff  held  her  head — that  is  to 
say,  held  it  up — the  old  man  would  heave  his 
frame  ponderously  in  and  upward  between  the 
dished  wheels  and  settle  back  into  the  deep  nest 
of  the  buggy,  with  a  wheeze  to  which  the  ago 
nised  rear  springs  wheezed  back  an  anthemlike 
refrain. 

"All  right,  Jeff!"  the  judge  would  say,  be 
stowing  his  cotton  umbrella  and  his  palm-leaf 
fan  in  their  proper  places,  and  working  a  pair 
of  wrinkled  buckskin  gloves  on  over  his  chubby 
hands.  "I  won't  be  back,  I  reckin,  till  goin'  on 
six  o'clock  this  evenin',  and  I  probably  won't 
want  nothin'  then  fur  supper  except  a  cold 
snack.  So  if  you  and  Aunt  Dilsey  both  put  out 
from  the  house  fur  the  day  be  shore  to  leave  the 
front-door  key  under  the  front-door  mat,  where 
I  kin  find  it  in  case  I  should  git  back  sooner'n  I 
[50] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

expect.  And  you  be  here  in  due  time  yourse'f , 
to  unhitch.  Hear  me,  boy?" 

"Yas,  suh,"  Jeff  would  respond.  "I  hears 
you." 

"All  right,  then!"  his  employer  would  com 
mand  as  he  gathered  up  the  lines.  "  Let  loose  of 
Mittie  May." 

Conforming  with  the  accepted  ritual  of  the 
occasion,  Jeff  would  let  loose  of  Mittie  May  and 
step  ceremoniously  yet  briskly  aside,  as  though 
fearing  instant  annihilation  in  the  first  resistless 
surge  of  a  desperate,  untamable  beast.  Judge 
Priest  would  slap  the  leathers  down  on  Mittie 
May's  fat  back;  and  Mittie  May,  sensing  the 
master  touch  on  those  reins,  would  gather  her 
four  shaggy  legs  together  with  apparent  intent 
of  bursting  into  a  mad  gallop,  and  then,  un- 
gathering  them,  step  out  in  her  characteristic 
gentle  amble,  a  gait  she  never  varied  under  any 
circumstances.  Away  they  would  go,  then, 
with  the  dust  splashing  up  from  under  Mittie 
May's  flat  and  deliberative  feet,  and  the  loose 
rear  curtain  of  the  buggy  flapping  and  slapping 
behind  like  a  slatting  sail. 

Jeff  would  stand  there  watching  them  until 
they  had  faded  away  in  the  deeper  dust  where 
Clay  Street  merged,  without  abrupt  transition, 
into  a  winding  country  road;  and,  knowing  the 
judge  was  definitely  on  his  way,  Jeff  would  be 
on  his  way,  too,  but  in  a  different  direction.  Of 
his  own  volition  Jeff  never  fared  countryward 
on  Sundays.  Green  fields  and  running  brooks 
[51] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


laid  no  spell  of  allurement  on  his  nimble  fancy. 
He  infinitely  preferred  metropolitan  haunts  and 
pastimes — such,  for  instance,  as  promenades 
along  the  broken  sidewalks  of  the  Plunkett's 
Hill  section  and  crap  games  behind  the  coloured 
undertaker's  shop  on  Locust  Street. 

The  judge's  way  would  be  a  pleasant  way — a 
peaceful,  easy  way,  marked  only  by  small  dis 
putes  at  each  crossroads  junction,  Mittie  May 
desiring  always  to  take  the  turn  that  would 
bring  them  back  home  by  the  shortest  route, 
and  the  judge  stubborn  in  his  intention  of  push 
ing  further  on.  The  superior  powers  of  human 
obstinacy  having  triumphed  over  four-legged  in 
stinct,  they  would  proceed.  Now  they  would 
clatter  across  a  wooden  bridge  spanning  a 
sluggish  amber-coloured  stream,  where  that  im 
pertinent  bird,  the  kingfisher,  cackled  derisive 
imitations  of  the  sound  given  off  by  the  warped 
axles  of  the  buggy,  and  the  yonkerpins — which 
Yankees,  in  their  ignorance,  have  called  water 
lilies — spread  their  wide  green  pads  and  their 
white-and-yellow  cusps  of  bloom  on  the  face 
of  the  creek  water. 

Now  they  would  come  to  cornfields  and 
tobacco  patches  that  steamed  in  the  sunshine, 
conceding  the  season  to  be  summer;  or  else  old, 
abandoned  clearings,  grown  up  rankly  in  shoe- 
make  bushes  and  pawpaw  and  persimmon  and 
sassafras.  And  the  pungent  scent  of  the  wayside 
pennyroyal  would  rise  like  an  incense,  saluting 
their  nostrils  as  they  passed,  and  the  grassy 

[«*] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

furrows  of  long-harvested  grain  crops  were  like 
the  lines  of  graves  on  old  battlegrounds. 

Now  they  would  come  into  the  deep  woods; 
and  here  the  sunlight  sifted  down  through  the 
tree  tops,  making  cathedral  aisles  among  the 
trunks  and  dim  green  cloisters  of  the  thickets; 
and  in  small  open  spaces  the  yellowing  double 
prongs  of  the  mullein  stalks  stood  up  stiff  and 
straightly  like  two-tined  altar  candles.  Then 
out  of  the  woods  again  and  along  a  stretch  of 
blinding  hot  road,  with  little  grey  lizards  racing 
on  the  decayed  fence  rails  as  outriders,  and 
maybe  a  pair  of  those  old  red-head  peckerwoods 
flickering  on  from  snag  to  snag  just  ahead,  keep 
ing  company  with  the  judge,  but  never  quite 
permitting  him  to  catch  up  with  them. 

So,  at  length,  after  five  miles,  or  maybe  ten,  he 
would  come  to  his  destination,  which  might  be  a 
red-brick  house  set  among  apple  trees  on  a  low 
hill,  or  a  whitewashed  double  cabin  of  logs  in  a 
bare  place  down  in  the  bottoms.  Here,  at  their 
journey's  end,  they  would  halt,  with  Mittie  May 
heaving  her  rotund  sides  in  and  out  in  creditable 
simulation  of  a  thoroughbred  finishing  a  hard 
race;  and  Judge  Priest  would  poke  his  head  out 
from  under  the  buggy  hood  and  utter  the  custo 
mary  hail  of  "Hello  the  house!"  At  that,  nine 
times  out  of  ten — from  under  the  house  and 
from  round  behind  it — would  boil  a  black-and- 
tan  ground  swell  of  flap-eared,  bugle-voiced 
hound  dogs,  all  tearing  for  the  gate,  with  every 
apparent  intention  of  devouring  horse  and  har- 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


ness,  buggy  and  driver,  without  a  moment's 
delay.  And  behind  them,  in  turn,  a  shirt-sleeved 
man  would  emerge  from  the  shelter  of  the  gal 
lery  and  hurry  down  the  path  toward  the  fence, 
berating  the  belling  pack  at  every  step  he 
took: 

"You  Sounder,  you  Ring,  you  Queen — con- 
sarn  your  mangy  pelts!  Go  on  back  yonder 
where  you  belong!  You  Saucer — come  on  back 
here  and  behave  yourse'f !  I  bet  I  take  a  chunk 
some  of  these  days  and  knock  your  fool  head 
off!" 

As  the  living  wave  of  dogs  parted  before  his 
advance  and  his  threats,  and  broke  up  and 
turned  about  and  vanished  with  protesting 
yelps,  the  shirt-sleeved  one,  recognising  Mittie 
May  and  the  shape  of  the  buggy,  would  speak  a 
greeting  something  after  this  fashion: 

"Well,  suh — ef  it  ain't  Jedge  Priest!  Jedge, 
suh,  I  certainly  ani  proud  to  see  you  out  this 
way.  We  was  beginnin'  to  think  you'd  furgot 
us — we  was,  fur  a  fact!" 

Over  his  shoulder  he  would  single  out  one  of 
a  cluster  of  children  who  magically  appeared  on 
the  gallery  steps,  and  bid  Tennessee  or  Virgil  or 
Dora- Virginia  or  Albert-Sidney,  as  the  name  of 
the  chosen  youngster  might  be,  to  run  and  tell 
their  ma  that  Judge  Priest  had  come  to  stay  for 
dinner.  For  the  judge  never  sent  any  advance 
"notice  of  his  intention  to  pay  a  Sunday  visit; 
neither  did  he  wait  for  a  formal  invitation.  He 
just  dropped  in,  being  assured  of  a  welcome 
[54] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

under  any  rooftree,  great  or  humble,  in  his  entire 
judicial  district. 

Shortly  thereafter  the  judge,  having  been 
welcomed  in  due  state,  and  provision  made  for 
Mittie  May's  stabling  and  sustenance,  would  be 
established  on  the  gallery  in  the  rocking-chair  of 
honour,  which  was  fetched  out  from  the  parlour 
for  his  better  comfort.  First,  a  brimming  gourd 
of  fresh  spring  water  would  be  brought,  that  he 
might  take  the  edge  off  his  thirst  and  flush  the 
dust  out  of  his  throat  and  moisten  up  his  palate; 
and  then  would  follow  a  certain  elaborated  rite 
in  conjunction  with  sundry  sprigs  of  young  mint 
and  some  powdered  sugar  and  outpourings  of 
the  red-brown  contents  of  a  wicker  demijohn. 

Very  possibly  a  barefooted  and  embarrassed 
namesake  would  be  propelled  forward,  by  par 
ental  direction,  to  shake  hands  with  the  guest; 
for,  except  old  Doctor  Saunders,  Judge  Priest 
had  more  children  named  for  him  than  anybody 
in  our  county.  And  very  probably  there  would 
come  to^his  ears  from  somewhere  rearward  the 
frenzied  clamour  of  a  mighty  barnyard  commo 
tion — squawkings  and  cacklings  and  flutterings 
— closely  followed  by  the  poignant  wails  of  a 
pair  of  doomed  pullets,  which  grew  fainter  and 
fainter  as  the  captives  were  borne  to  the  sacri 
ficial  block  behind  the  woodpile — certain  signs, 
all  these,  that  if  fried  chicken  had  not  been  in 
cluded  in  the  scope  and  plan  of  Sunday  dinner, 
fried  chicken  would  now  be,  most  assuredly. 

When  dinner  was  over,  small  messengers 
[55] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


would  be  sent  up  the  road  and  down  to  spread 
the  word;  and  various  oldsters  of  the  vicinity 
would  leave  their  own  places  to  foregather  in  the 
dooryard  of  the  present  host  and  pass  the  time 
of  day  with  Judge  Priest.  Sooner  or  later, 
somehow,  the  talk  would  work  backward  to  war 
times.  Overhearing  what  passed  to  and  fro,  a 
stranger  might  have  been  pardoned  for  suppos 
ing  that  it  was  only  the  year  before,  or  at  most 
two  years  before,  when  the  Yankees  came 
through  under  Grant;  while  Forrest's  Raid  was 
spoken  of  as  though  it  had  taken  place  within 
the  current  month. 

Anchored  among  the  ancients  the  old  judge 
would  sit,  doing  his  share  of  the  talking  and  more 
than  his  share  of  the  listening;  and  late  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  official  watermelon,  all 
dripping  and  cool,  had  been  brought  forth  from 
the  springhouse,  and  the  shadows  were  begin 
ning  to  stretch  themselves  slantwise  across  the 
road,  as  though  tired  out  completely  by  a  hard 
day's  work  in  the  broiling  sun,  he  and  Mittie 
May  would  jog  back  toward  town,  meeting 
many  an  acquaintance  on  the  road,  but  rarely 
passing  one.  And  the  upshot  would  be  that  at 
the  next  Democratic  primary  the  opposing  can 
didate  for  circuit  judge — if  there  was  any  op 
posing  candidate — got  powerfully  few  votes 
out  of  that  neighbourhood. 

Such  Sunday  excursions  as  these  and  such  a 
Sunday  dinner  as  this  typical  one  formed  a  regu- 
lar  part  of  Judge  Priest's  weekly  routine  through 
[56] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

at  least  nine  months  of  the  year.  If  unforeseen 
events  conspired  to  rob  him  of  his  trip  to  the 
country  he  felt  the  week  had  not  rightly  rounded 
itself  out;  but  once  a  year  he  attended  a  dinner 
beside  which  all  other  dinner  occasions  were,  in 
his  estimation,  as  nothing  at  all.  With  regard 
to  this  particular  affair,  he  used  to  say  it  took 
him  a  week  to  get  primed  and  ready  for  it,  one 
whole  night  to  properly  enjoy  it,  and  another 
week  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  it.  I  am 
speaking  now  of  the  anniversary  banquet  of  the 
survivors  of  Company  B — first  and  foremost  of 
the  home  companies — which  was  and  still  is 
held  always  on  a  given  date  and  at  a  given 
place,  respectively,  to  wit:  The  evening  of  the 
twelfth  of  May  and  the  dining  room  of  the 
Richland  House. 

Company  B  held  the  first  of  its  annual  dinners 
at  the  Richland  House  away  back  in  '66.  That 
time  sixty  and  more  men — young  men,  mostly, 
in  their  mid-twenties  and  their  early  thirties — 
sat  down  together  to  meat  and  drink,  and  no  less 
a  personage  than  General  Grider  presided — that 
same  Meriwether  Grider  who,  going  out  in  the 
first  year  of  the  war  as  company  commander, 
came  back  after  the  Surrender,  bringing  with 
him  the  skeleton  remnants  of  a  battered  and  a 
shattered  brigade. 

General  Meriwether  Grider  has  been  dead  this 

many  a  year  now.     He  gave  his  life  for  the 

women  and  the  children  when  the  Belle  of  the 

Bends  burned  up  at  Cottonwood  Bar;  and  that 

[57] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


horror  befell  so  long  ago  that  the  present  genera 
tion  down  our  way  knows  it  only  as  a  thing  of 
which  those  garrulous  and  tiresome  creatures, 
the  older  inhabitants,  are  sometimes  moved  to 
speak.  But  the  rules  for  the  regulation  and 
conduct  of  subsequent  banquets  which  were 
adopted  on  that  long-ago  night,  when  the  gen 
eral  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  hold  good,  even 
though  all  else  in  our  town  has  changed. 

Of  the  ardent  and  youthful  sixty-odd  who 
dined  with  him  then,  a  fading  and  aging  and 
sorely  diminished  handful  is  left.  Some  in  the 
restless  boom  days  of  the  eighties  moved  away 
to  other  and  brisker  communities,  and  some 
have  marched  down  the  long,  lone  road  that 
leads  to  a  far  country.  Yet  it  abides  as  a  by 
law  and  a  precedent  that  only  orthodox  mem 
bers  of  the  original  company  shall  have  covers 
and  places  provided  for  them  when  anniversary 
night  rolls  round.  The  Bichland  House- 
always — must  be  the  place  of  dining;  this,  too, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Richland  House 
has  been  gnawed  by  the  tooth  of  time  into  a 
shabby  old  shell,  hardly  worthy  to  be  named  in 
the  same  printed  page  with  the  smart  Hotel 
Moderne — strictly  European  plan;  rates,  three 
dollars  a  day  and  upward — which  now  figures 
as  our  leading  hotel. 

Near  the  conclusion  of  the  feast,  when  the 

cloth  has  been  cleared  of  the  dishes  and  only  the 

glasses  are  left,  the  roll  is  called  by  the  acting 

top-sergeant — cholera  having  taken  off  the  real 

[58] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

top-sergeant  in  '75.  Those  who  are  present 
answer  for  themselves,  and  for  those  who  are 
absent  some  other  voice  answers.  And  then  at 
the  very  last,  after  the  story-telling  is  done,  they 
all  stand  and  drink  to  Company  B — its  men,  its 
memories,  its  most  honourable  record,  and  its 
most  honourable  dead. 

They  tell  me  that  this  last  May  just  seven  met 
on  the  evening  of  the  twelfth  to  sit  beneath  the 
crossed  battle-flags  in  the  Richland  House  din 
ing  room,  and  that  everything  was  over  and 
done  with  long  before  eleven  o'clock.  But  the 
annual  dinner  which  I  especially  have  in  mind  to 
describe  here  took  place  on  a  somewhat  more 
remote  twelfth  of  May,  when  Company  B  still 
might  muster  better  than  the  strength  of  a  cor 
poral's  guard.  If  I  remember  correctly,  eighteen 
grizzled  survivors  were  known  to  be  alive  that 
year. 

In  saying  that,  though,  I  would  not  have  you 
infer  that  there  were  no  more  than  eighteen 
veterans  in  our  town.  Why,  in  those  times 
there  must  have  been  two  hundred  easily.  Gid 
eon  K.  Irons  Camp  could  turn  out  upward  of  a 
hundred  members  in  good  standing  for  any 
large  public  occasion;  but  you  understand  this 
was  a  dinner  limited  to  Company  B  alone,  which 
restriction  barred  out  a  lot  of  otherwise  highly 
desirable  individuals. 

It  barred  out  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby,  for  the 
sergeant  had  served  with  King's  Hellhounds; 
and  Captain  Shelby  Woodward,  who  belonged 
[59] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


to  the  Orphan  Brigade,  as  you  would  have 
learned  for  yourself  at  first  hand  had  you  ever 
enjoyed  as  much  as  five  minutes  of  uninter 
rupted  conversation  with  the  captain;  and  Mr. 
Wolfe  Hawley,  our  leading  grocer,  who  was  a 
gunner  in  Lyon's  Battery — and  many  another  it 
barred  out.  Indeed,  Father  Minor  got  in  only 
by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.  True  enough  he  was  a 
Company  B  man  at  the  beginning;  but  he  trans 
ferred  early  to  another  branch  of  the  service  and 
for  most  of  the  four  years  he  rode  with  Morgan's 
men. 

The  committee  in  charge  looked  for  a  full 
attendance.  It  was  felt  that  this  would  be  one  of 
the  most  successful  dinners  of  them  all.  Cer 
tainly  it  would  be  by  long  odds  the  best  adver 
tised.  It  would  seem  that  the  Sunday  editor  of 
the  Courier- Journal,  while  digging  through  his 
exchanges,  came  on  a  preliminary  announcement 
in  the  columns  of  the  Daily  Evening  News, 
which  was  our  home  paper;  and,  sensing  a 
feature  story  in  it,  he  sent  one  of  his  young 
men  down  from  Louisville  to  spend  two  days 
among  us,  compiling  facts,  names  and  photo 
graphs.  The  young  man  did  a  page  spread 
in  the  Sunday  Courier- Journal,  thereby  un 
consciously  enriching  many  family  scrapbooks 
in  our  town. 

This  was  along  toward  the  middle  of  April. 

Following  it,   one  of  the  Eastern   syndicates 

rewrote  the  piece  and  mailed  it  out  to  its  con- 

stituent  papers  over  the  country.     The  Asso- 

[60] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

dated  Press  saw  fit  to  notice  it  too;  and  after 
that  the  tale  got  into  the  boiler-plate  shops — 
which  means  it  got  into  practically  all  the 
smaller  weeklies  that  use  patent  insides.  It 
must  have  been  a  strictly  non-newspaper-read 
ing  community  of  this  nation  which  did  not 
hear  that  spring  about  the  group  of  old  soldiers 
who  for  forty  years  without  a  break  had  held  a 
dinner  once  a  year  with  no  outsiders  present,  and 
who  were  now,  for  the  forty-first  time,  about  to 
dine  again. 

Considering  this  publicity  and  all,  the  com 
mittee  naturally  counted  on  a  fairly  complete 
turnout.  To  be  sure,  Magistrate  Matt  Dallam, 
out  in  the  country,  could  not  hope  to  be  present 
except  in  the  spirit,  he  having  been  bedridden 
for  years.  Garnett  Hinton,  the  youngest  en 
listed  member  of  Company  B,  was  in  feeble 
health  away  off  yonder  in  the  Panhandle  of 
Texas.  It  was  not  reasonable  to  expect  him  to 
make  the  long  trip  back  home.  On  the  tenth 
Mr.  Napoleon  B.  Crump  was  called  to  Birming 
ham,  Alabama,  where  a  ne'er-do-well  son-in-law 
had  entangled  himself  in  legal  difficulties,  arising 
out  of  a  transaction  involving  a  dubious  check, 
with  a  yet  more  dubious  signature  on  it.  He 
might  get  back  in  time — and  then  again  he 
might  not. 

On  the  other  hand,  Second  Lieutenant  Char 
ley  Garrett  wrote  up  from  his  plantation  down 
in  Mississippi  that  he  would  attend  if  he  had  to 
walk — a  mere  pleasantry  of  speech,  inasmuch  as 
[61] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Lieutenant  Garrett  had  money  enough  to  char 
ter  for  himself  a  whole  railroad  train  should  he 
feel  so  inclined.  And,  from  his  little  farm  in 
Minis  County,  Chickasaw  Reeves  sent  word  he 
would  be  there,  too,  no  matter  what  happened. 
The  boys  could  count  on  him,  he  promised. 

Tallying  up  twenty-four  hours  or  so  ahead  of 
the  big  night,  the  arrangements  committee, 
consisting  of  Doctor  Lake,  Professor  Lycurgus 
Reese  and  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg,  made  certain 
of  fifteen  diners,  and  possibly  sixteen,  and  gave 
orders  accordingly  to  the  proprietor  of  the  Rich- 
land  House;  but  Mr.  Nap  Crump  was  detained 
in  Birmingham  longer  than  he  had  expected,  and 
Judge  Priest  received  from  Lieutenant  Charley 
Garrett  a  telegram  reading  as  follows : 

"May  the  Lord  be  with  you! — because  I 
can't.  Rheumatism  in  that  game  leg  of  mine, 
it!" 

The  excisions,  it  developed,  were  the  work  of 
the  telegraph  company: 

Then,  right  on  top  of  this,  another  disap 
pointment  piled  itself — I  have  reference  now  to 
the  sudden  and  painful  indisposition  of  Chicka 
saw  Reeves.  Looking  remarkably  hale  and 
hearty,  considering  his  sixty-eight  years,  Mr. 
Reeves  arrived  in  due  season  on  the  eleventh, 
dressed  fit  to  kill  in  his  Sunday  best  and  a  turn 
down  celluloid  collar  and  a  pair  of  new  shoes  of 
most  amazing  squeakiness.  After  visiting,  in 
turn,  a  considerable  number  of  old  friends  and 
sharing,  with  such  as  them  as  were  not  bigoted, 
[62] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

the  customary  and  appropriate  libations,  he 
dropped  into  Sherill's  Bar  at  a  late  hour  of  the 
evening  for  a  nightcap  before  retiring. 

At  once  his  fancy  was  drawn  to  a  milk  punch, 
the  same  being  a  pleasant  compound  to  which 
he  had  been  introduced  an  hour  or  so  earlier. 
This  milk  punch  seemed  to  call  for  another,  and 
that  one  for  still  another.  As  the  first  deep 
sip  of  number  three  creamily  saluted  his  palate, 
Mr.  Reeves'  eyes,  over  the  rim  of  the  deep 
tumbler,  fell  on  the  free  lunch  displayed  at  the 
far  end  of  the  bar.  He  was  moved  to  step  down 
that  way  and  investigate. 

The  milk  punches  probably  would  not  have 
mattered — or  the  cubes  of  brick  cheese,  or  the 
young  onions,  or  the  pretzels,  or  the  pickled 
beets  and  pigs'  feet.  Mr.  Reeves'  seasoned  and 
dependable  gastric  processes  were  amply  com 
petent  to  triumph  over  any  such  commonplace 
combination  of  food  and  drink.  Undoubtedly 
his  undoing  was  directly  attributable  to  a  con 
siderable  number  of  little  slickery  fish,  belong  • 
ing,  I  believe,  to  the  pilchard  family — that  is  4,0 
say,  they  are  pilchards  while  yet  they  do  s-im 
and  disport  themselves  hither  and  yon  in  their 
native  element;  but  when  caught  and  brined 
and  spiced  and  oiled,  and  put  in  cans  for  the 
export  trade,  they  take  on  a  different  name  and 
become,  commercially  speaking,  something  else. 

Mr.  Reeves  did  not  notice  them  at  first.  He 
had  sampled  one  titbit  and  then  another;  finally 
his  glance  was  arrested  by  a  dish  of  these  small, 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


dainty  appearing  creatures.  A  tentative  nibble 
at  the  lubricated  tail  of  a  sample  specimen 
reassured  him  as  to  the  gastronomic  excellence 
of  the  novelty.  He  stayed  right  there  until  the 
dish  was  practically  empty.  Then,  after  one 
more  milk  punch,  he  bade  the  barkeeper  good 
night  and  departed. 

Not  until  three  o'clock  the  following  afternoon 
was  Mr.  Reeves  able  to  receive  any  callers — 
except  only  Doctor  Lake,  whose  visits  until  that 
hour  had  been  in  a  professional  rather  than  in  a 
social  capacity.  Judge  Priest,  coming  by  invi 
tation  of  the  sufferer,  found  Mr.  Reeves'  room 
at  the  hotel  redolent  with  the  atmospheres  of 
bodily  distress.  On  the  bed  of  affliction  by  the 
window  was  stretched  the  form  of  Mr.  Reeves. 
He  was  not  exactly  pale,  but  he  was  as  pale  as  a 
person  of  Mr.  Reeves'  habit  of  life  could  be  and 
still  retain  the  breath  of  life. 

"Well,  Chickasaw,  old  feller,"  said  Judge 
Priest,  "how  goes  it?  Feelin'  a  little  bit  easier 
vhan  you  was,  ain't  you?" 

The  invalid  groaned  emptily  before  answering 
in  t  wan  and  wasted-away  tone. 

"ijilly,"  he  said,  "ef  you  could  'a'  saw  me 
'long  'bout  half  past  two  this  mornin',  when  she 
first  come  on  me,  you'd  know  better 'n  to  a>k 
sech  a  question  as  that.    First,  I  wus  skeered  I 
wus  goin'  to  die.    And  then  after  a  spell  I  wus 
skeered  I  wusn't.     I  reckin  there  ain't  nobod 
nowheres  that  ever  had  ez  many  diff 'runt  kino 
of  cramps  ez  me  and  lived  to  tell  the  tale." 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

"That's  too  bad,"  commiserated  the  judge. 
"Was  it  somethin'  you  et  or  somethin'  you 
drunk?" 

"I  reekin  it  wus  a  kind  of  a  mixture  of  both," 
admitted  Mr.  Reeves.  "Billy,  did  you  ever 
make  a  habit  of  imbibin'  these  here  milk 
punches?" 

"Well,  not  lately,"  said  Judge  Priest. 

"Well,  suh,"  stated  Mr.  Reeves,  "you'd  be 
surprised  to  know  how  tasty  they  kin  make  jest 
plain  ordinary  cow's  milk  ef  they  take  and  put 
some  good  red  licker  and  a  little  sugar  in  it,  and 
shake  it  all  up  together,  and  then  sift  a  little 
nutmaig  seasonin'  onto  it — you  would  so!  But, 
after  you've  drunk  maybe  three-four,  I  claim 
you  have  to  be  sorter  careful  'bout  whut  you 
put  on  top  of  'em.  I've  found  that  much  out. 

"I  reekin  it  serves  me  right,  though.  A 
country- jake  like  me  oughter  know  better 'n  to 
come  up  here  out  of  the  sticks  and  try  to  gor 
mandise  hisse'f  on  all  these  here  fancy  town 
vittles.  It's  all  right,  mebbe,  fur  you  city  folks; 
but  my  stomach  ain't  never  been  educated  up 
to  it.  Hereafter  I'm  a-goin'  to  stick  to  hawg 
jowl  and  cawn  pone,  and  things  I  know  'bout. 
You  hear  me — I'm  done!  I've  been  cured. 

"And  specially  I've  been  cured  in  reguards  to 
these  here  little  pizenous  fishes  that  look  some- 
thin'  like  sardeens,  and  yit  they  ain't  sardeens. 
I  don't  know  what  they  call  'em  by  name;  but  it 
certainly  oughter  be  ag'inst  the  law  to  leave  'em 
settin'  round  on  a  snack  counter  where  folks  kin 
[65] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


git  to  'em.  Two  or  three  of  'em  would  be  dan 
gerous,  I  claim — and  I  must  'a'  et  purty  nigh  a 
whole  school." 

Again  Mr.  Reeves  moaned  reminiscently. 

"Well,  from  the  way  you  feel  now,  does  it 
look  like  you're  goin'  to  be  able  to  come  to  the 
blow-out  to-night?"  inquired  Judge  Priest. 
"That's  the  main  point.  The  boys  are  all 
countin'  on  you,  Chickasaw." 

"Billy,"  bemoaned  Mr.  Reeves,  "I  hate  it 
mightily;  but  even  ef  I  wus  able  to  git  up — 
which  I  ain't — and  git  my  clothes  on  and  git 
down  to  the  Richland  House,  I  wouldn't  be  no 
credit  to  yore  party.  From  the  way  I  feel  now, 
I  don't  never  ag'in  want  to  look  vittles  in  the 
face  so  long  ez  I  live.  And,  furthermore,  ef  they 
should  happen  to  have  a  mess  of  them  there 
little  greasy  minners  on  the  table  I  know  I'd 
be  a  disgrace  to  myse'f  right  then  and  there. 
No,  Billy;  I  reckin  I'd  better  stay  right  where  I 


am." 


Thus  it  came  to  pass  that,  when  the  members 
of  Company  B  sat  down  together  in  the  deco 
rated  dining  room  of  the  Richland  House  at 
eight  o'clock  that  evening,  the  chair  provided 
for  Mr.  Chickasaw  Reeves  made  a  gap  in  the 
line.  Judge  Priest  was  installed  in  the  place  of 
honour,  where  Lieutenant  Garrett,  by  virtue  of 
being  ranking  surviving  officer,  would  have 
enthroned  himself  had  it  not  been  for  that 
game  leg  of  his.  From  his  seat  at  the  head, 
the  judge  glanced  down  the  table  and  decided 
[66] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

in  his  own  mind  that,  despite  absentees,  every 
thing  was  very  much  as  it  should  be.  At  every 
plate  was  a  little  flag  showing,  on  a  red  back 
ground,  a  blue  St.  Andrew's  cross  bearing 
thirteen  stars.  At  every  plate,  also,  was  a  tall 
and  aromatic  toddy.  Cocktails  figured  not  in 
the  dinner  plans  of  Company  B;  they  never 
had  and  they  never  would. 

At  the  far  end  from  him  was  old  Press  Harper. 
Once  it  had  been  Judge  Priest's  most  painful 
duty  to  sentence  Press  Harper  to  serve  two  years 
at  hard  labour  in  the  state  prison.  To  be  sure, 
circumstances,  which  have  been  detailed  else 
where,  interfered  to  keep  Press  Harper  from 
serving  all  or  any  part  of  his  punishment;  never 
theless,  it  was  the  judge  who  had  sentenced 
him.  Now,  catching  the  judge's  eye,  old  Press 
waved  his  arm  at  him  in  a  proud  and  fond 
greeting. 

Father  Manor  beamingly  faced  Squire  Futrell, 
whose  Southern  Methodism  was  of  the  most 
rigid  and  unbendable  type.  Professor  Reese, 
principal  of  the  graded  school,  touched  elbows 
with  Jake  Smedley,  colour  bearer  of  the  Camp, 
who  just  could  make  out  to  write  his  own  name. 
Peter  J.  Galloway,  the  lame  blacksmith,  who 
most  emphatically  was  Irish,  had  a  caressing 
arm  over  the  stooped  shoulder  of  Mr.  Herman 
Felsburg,  who  most  emphatically  was  not. 
Doctor  Lake,  his  own  pet  crony  in  a  town  where 
everybody,  big  and  little,  was  his  crony  in  some 
degree,  sat  one  seat  removed  from  the  judge, 
[67] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


with  the  empty  chair  of  the  bedfast  Chickasaw 
Reeves  in  between  them  and  so  it  went. 

Even  in  the  matter  of  the  waiters  an  ancient 
and  a  hallowed  sentiment  ruled.  Behind  Judge 
Priest,  and  swollen  as  with  a  dropsy  by  pomp  of 
pride  and  vanity,  stood  Uncle  Zach  Mathews,  a 
rosewood-coloured  person,  whose  affection  for 
the  Cause  that  was  lost  had  never  been  ques 
tioned — even  though  Uncle  Zach,  after  confusing 
military  experiences,  emerged  from  the  latter  end 
of  the  conflict  as  cook  for  a  mess  of  Union  offi 
cers  and  now  drew  his  regular  quarterly  pension 
from  a  generous  Federal  Government. 

Flanking  Uncle  Zach,  both  with  napkins 
draped  over  their  arms,  both  awaiting  the  word 
from  him  to  bring  on  the  first  course,  were 
posted — on  the  right,  Tobe  Emery,  General 
Grider's  one-time  body  servant;  on  the  left, 
Uncle  Ike  Copeland,  a  fragile,  venerable  ex- 
human  chattel,  who  might  almost  claim  to  have 
seen  actual  service  for  the  Confederacy.  No 
ordinary  darkies  might  come  to  serve  when 
Company  B  foregathered  at  the  feast. 

Uncle  Zach,  with  large  authority,  had  given 
the  opening  order,  and  at  the  side  tables  a 
pleasing  clatter  of  china  had  arisen,  when  Squire 
Futrell  put  down  his  glass  and  rose,  with  a 
startled  look  on  his  face. 

"Looky  here,  boys!"  he  exclaimed.  "This 
won't  never  do!  Did  you  fellers  know  there 
wus  thirteen  at  the  table?" 

Sure  enough,  there  were! 
[68] 


A  BLENDING.  OF  THE  PARABLES 

It  has  been  claimed — perhaps  not  without 
colour  of  plausibility — that  Southerners  are 
more  superstitious  than  Northerners.  Assuredly 
the  Southerners  of  a  generation  that  is  almost 
gone  now  uniformly  nursed  their  private  beliefs 
in  charms,  omens,  spells,  hoodoos  and  portents. 
As  babies  many  of  them  were  nursed,  as  boys 
all  of  them  were  played  with,  by  members  of  the 
most  superstitious  race — next  to  actors — on  the 
face  of  creation.  An  actor  of  Ethiopian  descent 
should  by  rights  be  the  most  superstitious  crea 
ture  that  breathes  the  air  of  this  planet,  and 
doubtlessly  is. 

No  one  laughed  at  Squire  Futrell's  alarm  over 
his  discovery.  Possibly  excusing  Father  Minor, 
it  is  probable  that  all  present  shared  it  with  him. 
As  for  Uncle  Zach  Mathews  and  his  two  assis 
tants,  they  froze  with  horror  where  they  had 
halted,  their  loaded  trays  poised  on  their  arms. 
But  they  did  not  freeze  absolutely  solid — they 
quivered  slightly. 

*' Law-zee!"  gasped  Uncle  Zach,  with  his  eye 
balls  rolling.  "Dinner  can't  go  no  fur'der  twell 
we  gits  somebody  else  in  or  meks  somebody 
leave  and  go  'way — dat's  sartain  shore!  Whee! 
We  kin  all  thank  Our  Maker  dat  dey  ain't  been 
nary  bite  et  yit." 

"Amen  to  dat,  Brer  Zach!"  muttered  Ike 
shakily;  and  dumbly  Tobe  Emery  nodded, 
stricken  beyond  power  of  speech  by  the  nearness 
of  a  barely  averted  catastrophe  fraught  with  dis- 

aster,  if  not  with  death  itself. 

[69] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


Involuntarily  Judge  Priest  had  shoved  his 
chair  back;  most  of  the  others  had  done  the 
same  thing.  He  got  on  his  feet  with  alacrity. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "the  squire  is  right — there's 
thirteen  of  us.  Now  whut  d'ye  reckin  we're 
goin'  to  do  'bout  that?" 

The  natural  suggestion  would  be  that  they 
send  at  once  for  another  person.  Three  or  four 
offered  it  together,  their  voices  rising  in  a  babble. 
Names  of  individuals  who  would  make  congenial 
table  mates  were  heard.  Among  others,  Ser 
geant  Jimmy  Bagby  was  spoken  of;  likewise 
Colonel  Cope  and  Captain  Woodward.  But 
Judge  Priest  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  agree  with  you-all,"  he  set  forth. 
"By  the  time  we  sent  clean  uptown  and  rousted 
one  of  them  boys  out,  the  vittles  would  all  be 
cold." 

"Well,  Billy,"  demanded  Doctor  Lake,  "what 
are  you  going  to  do,  then?  We  can't  go  ahead 
this  way,  can  we?  Of  course  I  don't  believe  in 
all  this  foolishness  about  signs  myself;  but" — 
he  added — "but  I  must  admit  to  a  little  personal 
prejudice  against  thirteen  at  the  table." 

"Listen  here,  you  boys!"  said  Judge  Priest. 
"Ef  we're  jest  obliged  and  compelled  to  break 
a  long-standin'  rule  of  this  command — and  it 
looks  to  me  like  that's  whut  we've  got  to  do — 
let's  foller  after  a  precedent  that  was  laid  down  a 
mighty  long  time  ago.  You-all  remember — 
don't  you — how  the  Good  Book  tells  about  the 
Rich  Man  that  give  a  feast  oncet?  And  at  the 
[70] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

last  minute  the  guests  he'd  invited  didn't  show 
up  at  all — none  of  'em.  So  then  he  sent  out 
into  the  highways  and  byways  and  scraped 
together  some  hongry  strangers;  and  by  all 
accounts  they  had  a  purty  successful  time  of  it 
there.  When  in  doubt  I  hold  it's  a  fairly  safe 
plan  to  jest  take  a  leaf  out  of  them  old  Gospels 
and  go  by  it.  Let's  send  out  right  here  in  the 
neighbourhood  and  find  somebody — no  matter 
who  'tis,  so  long  as  he's  free,  white  and  twenty- 
one — that  looks  like  he  could  appreciate  a  meal 
of  vittles,  and  present  the  compliments  of  Com 
pany  B  to  him,  and  ast  him  will  he  come  on  in 
and  jine  with  us." 

Maybe  it  was  the  old  judge's  way  of  putting 
it,  but  the  idea  took  unanimously.  The  manager 
of  the  Richland  House,  having  been  sent  for, 
appeared  in  person  almost  immediately.  To 
him  the  situation  was  outlined  and  the  remedy 
for  it  that  had  been  favoured. 

"By  gum,  gentlemen,"  said  their  host,  in 
stantly  inspired,  "-I  believe  I  know  where  I  can 
put  my  hand  on  the  very  candidate  you're 
looking  for.  There's  a  kind  of  seedy-looking, 
lonely  old  fellow  downstairs,  from  somewhere 
the  other  side  of  the  Ohio  River.  He's  been 
registered  since  yes'day  morning;  seems  like  to 
me  his  name  is  Watts — something  like  that, 
anyhow.  He  don't  seem  to  have  any  friends  or 
no  business  in  particular;  he's  just  kind  of  hang 
ing  round.  And  he  knows  about  this  dinner  too. 
He  was  talking  to  me  about  it  a  while  ago,  just 
[71] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIES. T 


before  supper — said  he'd  read  about  it  in  a 
newspaper  up  in  his  country.  He  even  asked  me 
what  the  names  of  some  of  you  gentlemen  were. 
If  you  think  he'll  do  to  fill  in  I'll  go  right  down 
and  get  him.  He  was  sitting  by  himself  in  a 
corner  of  the  lobby  not  two  minutes  ago.  I 
judge  he's  about  the  right  age,  too,  if  age  is  a 
consideration.  He  looks  to  be  about  the  same 
age  as  most  of  you." 

There  was  no  need  for  Judge  Priest  to  put  the 
question  to  a  vote.  It  carried,  so  to  speak,  by 
acclamation.  Bearing  a  verbal  commission 
heartily  to  speak  for  the  entire  assemblage,  Man 
ager  Ritter  hurried  out  and  in  less  than  no  time 
was  back  again,  escorting  the  person  he  had 
described.  Judge  Priest  met  them  at  the  door 
and  was  there  introduced  to  the  stranger,  whose 
rather  reluctant  hand  he  warmly  shook. 

"He  didn't  want  to  come  at  first,"  explained 
Mr.  Ritter;  "said  he  didn't  belong  up  here  with 
you-all;  but  when  I  told  him  the  fix  you  was  in 
he  gave  in  and  consented,  and  here  he  is." 

"You're  mighty  welcome,  suh,"  said  Judge 
Priest,  still  holding  the  other  man's  hand.  "And 
we're  turribly  obliged  to  you  fur  comin',  and  to 
Mr.  Ritter  fur  astin'  you  to  come." 

With  that,  he  drew  their  dragooned  guest  into 
the  room  and,  standing  beside  him,  made  formal 
presentation  to  the  expectant  company. 

"Gentlemen  of  Company  B,  allow  me  to  make 
you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Watts,  of  the  State  of 
Illinoy,  who  has  done  us  the  great  honour  of 
[72] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

agreein'  to  make  fourteen  at  the  table,  and  to 
eat  a  bite  with  us  at  this  here  little  dinner  of 
ours."  A  straggling  outburst  of  greeting  and 
approbation  arose  from  twelve  elderly  throats. 
"Mr.  Watts,  suh,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  take 
this  cheer  here,  next  to  me?"  resumed  Judge 
Priest  when  the  noise  abated;  and  he  completed 
the  ceremonial  by  indicating  the  place  of  the 
absent  Mr.  Reeves. 

What  the  stranger  saw  as  he  came  slowly 
forward — if,  indeed,  he  was  able  to  see  anything 
with  distinctness  by  reason  of  the  evident  con 
fusion  that  covered  him — was  a  double  row  of 
kindly,  cordial,  curious  faces  of  old  men,  all 
staring  at  him.  Before  the  battery  of  their  eyes 
he  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  but  did  not 
speak  them;  still  without  speaking,  he  slipped 
into  the  seat  which  Tobe  Emery  sprang  forward 
to  draw  clear  of  the  table  for  his  easier  admission 
to  the  group.  What  the  others  saw  was  a  tall, 
stooped,  awkward  man  of,  say,  sixty-five,  with 
sombre  eyes,  set  deep  in  a  whiskered  face  that 
had  been  burned  a  leathery  red  by  wind  and 
weather;  a  heavy-footed  man,  who  wore  a  suit 
of  store  clothes — clothes  of  a  homely  cut  and 
none  too  new,  yet  neat  enough;  such  a  man,  one 
might  guess  at  a  glance,  as  would  have  little  to 
say  and  would  be  chary  about  saying  that  little 
until  sure  of  his  footing  and  his  audience.  Judg 
ing  by  appearances  and  first  impressions  he  did 
not  promise  to  be  what  you  might  call  excit- 
ing  company,  exactly;  but  he  made  fourteen 
[73] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


at  the  table,  and  that  was  the  main  point, 
anyhow. 

Now  the  dinner  got  under  way  with  a  swing 
and  a  clatter.  For  all  the  stitches  and  tucks  that 
time  had  taken  in  their  leg  muscles,  the  three 
old  negroes  flitted  about  like  flickery  black 
shadows,  bringing  food  to  all  and  toddies  to 
several,  and  just  plain  ice  water  to  at  least  three 
of  their  white  friends.  Even  Kentuckians  have 
been  known  to  be  advocates  of  temperance.  To 
learn  how  true  a  statement  this  is  you  must  read, 
not  the  comic  weeklies,  but  the  official  returns  of 
local-option  elections.  Above  the  medley  of 
commingling  voices,  some  cracked  and  jangled 
with  age,  some  still  full  and  sonorous,  and  one 
at  least  as  thin  and  piercing  as  the  bleat  of  a 
reed  flute — that  would  be  Judge  Priest's  voice, 
of  course — sounded  the  rattling  of  dishes  and 
glasses  and  plated  silverware.  Uncle  Zach  and 
his  two  aides  may  have  been  good  waiters,  but 
they  were  tolerably  noisy  ones. 

Through  it  all  the  extra  guest  sat  very  quietly, 
eating  little  and  drinking  nothing.  Sitting 
alongside  him,  Doctor  Lake  noticed  that  he  fed 
himself  with  his  right  hand  only;  his  left  hand 
stayed  in  his  lap,  being  hidden  from  sight 
beneath  the  table.  Naturally  this  set  afoot  a 
train  of  mild  professional  surmise  in  the  old  doc 
tor's  mind.  The  arm  itself  seemed  sound  enough; 
he  vaguely  wondered  whether  the  Illinois  man 
had  a  crippled  hand  or  a  deformed  hand,  or 
what.  Judge  Priest  noticed  it  too,  but  subcon- 
[74] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

sciously  rather.  At  the  beginning  he  tried  to 
start  a  conversation  with  Watts,  feeling  it 
incumbent  on  him,  as  chief  sponsor  for  the 
other's  presence,  to  cure  him  of  his  embarrass 
ment  if  he  could,  and  to  make  him  feel  more  at 
home  there  among  them;  but  his  well-meant 
words  appeared  to  fall  on  barren  soil.  The 
stranger  answered  in  mumbled  monosyllables, 
without  once  looking  Judge  Priest  straight  in 
the  face.  He  kept  his  head  half  averted — a 
posture  the  judge  ascribed  to  diffidence;  but  it 
was  evident  he  missed  nothing  at  all  of  the 
talk  that  ran  up  and  down  the  long  table  and 
back  and  forth  across  it.  Under  his  bushy 
brows  his  eyes  shifted  from  face  to  face  as  this 
man  or  that  had  his  say. 

So  presently  the  judge,  feeling  that  he  had 
complied  with  the  requirements  of  hospitality, 
abandoned  the  effort  to  interest  his  silent  neigh 
bour,  and  very  soon  after  forgot  him  altogether 
for  the  time  being.  Under  the  circumstances  it 
was  only  to  be  expected  of  Judge  Priest  that  he 
should  forget  incidental  matters;  for  now,  to  all 
these  lifelong  friends  of  his,  time  was  swinging 
backward  on  a  greased  hinge.  The  years  that 
had  lined  these  old  faces  and  bent  these  old 
backs  were  dropping  away;  the  memories  of 
great  and  storied  days  were  mounting  to  their 
brains  like  the  fumes  of  strong  wine,  brightening 
their  eyes  and  loosening  their  tongues. 

From  their  eager  lips  dropped  names  of  small 
country  churches,  tiny  backwoods  villages  of 
[75] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


the  Southwest,  trivial  streams  and  geograph 
ically  inconsequential  mountains — names  that 
once  meant  nothing  to  the  world  at  large,  but 
which,  by  reason  of  Americans  having  fought 
Americans  there  and  Americans  having  died  by 
the  hundreds  and  the  thousands  there,  are  now 
printed  in  the  school  histories  and  memorised  by 
the  school  children — Island  Number  10  and 
Shiloh;  Peachtree  Creek  and  Stone  River;  Kene- 
saw  Mountain  and  Brice's  Crossroads.  They 
had  been  at  these  very  places,  or  at  most  of  them 
— these  thirteen  old  men  had.  To  them  the 
names  were  more  than  names.  Each  one 
burned  in  their  hearts  as  a  living  flame.  All  the 
talk,  though,  was  not  of  battle  and  skirmish.  It 
dealt  with  prisons,  with  hospitals,  with  camps 
and  marches. 

"By  George,  boys,  will  you  ever  forget  the 
day  we  marched  out  of  this  town?"  It  was 
Doctor  Lake  speaking,  and  his  tone  was  high 
and  exultant.  "Flags  flying  everywhere  and 
our  sweethearts  crying  and  cheering  us  through 
their  tears!  And  the  old  town  band  up  front 
playing  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me  and  Johnnie's 
Gone  for  a  Soger!  And  we-all  stepping  along, 
feeling  so  high  and  mighty  and  stuck-up  in  our 
new  uniforms!  A  little  shy  on  tactics  we  were, 
and  not  enough  muskets  to  go  round ;  but  all  the 
boys  wore  new  grey  suits,  I  remember.  Our 
mothers  saw  to  that." 

"It  was  different,  though,  Lew,  the  day  we 
came  home  again,"  reminded  some  one  else, 
[76] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

speaking  gently.  "No  flags  flying  then  and 
nobody  cheering,  and  no  band  to  play !  And  half 
the  women  were  in  black — yes,  more  than  half." 

"An'  dat's  de  Gawd's  truth!"  half -whispered 
black  Tobe  Emery,  carried  away  for  the  mo 
ment. 

"Well,"  said  Press  Harper,  "I  know  they  run 
out  of  muskets  'fore  they  got  round  to  me.  I 
call  to  mind  that  I  went  off  totin'  an  ole  flintlock 
that  my  paw  had  with  him  down  in  Mexico 
when  he  wus  campin'  on  ole  Santy  Anny's  trail. 
And  that  wus  all  I  did  have  in  the  way  of 
weepins,  'cept  fur  a  great  big  bowie  knife  that  a 
blacksmith  out  at  Massac  made  fur  me  out  of  a 
rasp-file.  I  wus  mighty  proud  of  that  there 
bowie  of  mine  till  we  got  down  yonder  to  Camp 
Boone  and  found  a  "whole  company,  all  with 
bigger  knives  than  whut  mine  wus.  Called 
themselves  the  Blood  River  Tigers,  those  boys 
did,  'cause  they  came  frum  up  on  Blood  River, 
in  Calloway." 

Squire  Futrell  took  the  floor — or  the  table, 
rather — for  a  moment: 

"I  recollec'  one  Calloway  County  feller  down 
at  Camp  Boone,  when  we  fust  got  there,  that 
didn't  even  have  a  knife.  He  went  round  'lowin' 
as  how  he  wus  goin'  to  pick  him  out  a  likely 
Yank  the  fust  fight  we  got  into,  and  lick  him 
with  his  bare  hands  ef  he  stood  still  and  fit,  or 
knock  him  down  with  a  rock  ef  he  broke  and 
run — and  then  strip  him  of  his  outfit." 

"Why,  I  place  that  feller,  jest  ez  plain  ez  if  he 
[77] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


wus  standin'  here  now,"  declared  Mr.  Harper. 
"I  remember  him  sayin'  he  could  lick  ary 
Yankee  that  ever  lived  with  his  bare  hands." 

"I  reckin  mebbe  he  could,  too — he  wus  plenty 
long  enough,"  said  the  squire  with  a  chuckle; 
"but  the  main  obstacle  wus  that  the  Yankees 
wouldn't  fight  with  their  bare  hands.  They  jest 
would  insist  on  usin'  tools — the  contrary  rascals ! 
Let's  see,  now,  whut  wus  that  Calloway  County 
feller's  name?  You  remember  him,  Herman, 
don't  you?  A  tall,  ganglin'  jimpy  jawed,  loose- 
laiged  feller  he  wus — built  like  one  of  these  here 
old  blue  creek  cranes." 

Mr.  Felsburg  shook  his  head;  but  Press 
Harper  broke  in  again: 

"I've  got  him !  The  boys  called  him  Lengthy 
fur  short;  but  his  real  name  wus  Washburn, 
same  ez — 

He  stopped  short  off  there;  and,  twisting  his 
head  away  from  the  disapproving  faces,  which 
on  the  instant  had  been  turned  full  on  him  from 
all  along  the  table,  he  went  through  the  motion 
of  spitting,  as  though  to  rid  his  mouth  of  an 
unsavoury  taste.  A  hot  colour  climbed  to  Peter 
J.  Galloway's  wrinkled  cheeks  and  he  growled 
under  the  overhang  of  his  white  moustache. 
Doctor  Lake  pursed  up  his  lips,  shaking  his  head 
slowly. 

There  was  one  black  spot,  and  just  one,  on  the 

records  of  Company  B.    And,  living  though  he 

might  still  be,  or  dead,  as  probably  he  was,  the 

name  of  one  man  was  taboo  when  his  one-time 

[78] 


A     BLENDING     OF     THE     PA  R  A  B  L  E  S 

companions  broke  bread  at  their  anniversary 
dinner.  Indeed,  they  went  farther  than  that: 
neither  there  nor  elsewhere  did  they  speak  by 
name  of  him  who  had  been  their  shame  and  their 
disgrace.  It  was  a  rule.  With  them  it  was  as 
though  that  man  had  never  lived. 

Up  to  this  point  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  had 
had  mighty  little  to  say.  For  all  he  had  lived 
three-fourths  of  his  life  in  our  town,  his  command 
of  English  remained  faulty  and  broken,  betray 
ing  by  every  other  word  his  foreign  birth;  and 
his  habit  of  mixing  his  metaphors  was  prover 
bial.  He  essayed  few  long  speeches  before  mixed 
audiences;  but  now  he  threw  himself  into  the 
breach,  seeking  to  bridge  over  the  awkward 
pause. 

"Speaking  of  roll  calls  and  things  such  as 
that,"  began  Mr.  Felsburg,  seeming  to  overlook 
the  fact  that  until  now  no  one  had  spoken  of 
roll  calls — "speaking  of  those  kinds  of  things, 
maybe  you  will  perhaps  remember  how  it  was 
along  in  the  winter  of  '64,  when  practically  we 
were  out  of  everything — clothes  and  shoes  and 
blankets  and  money — ach,  yes;  money  espe 
cially! — and  how  the  orderly  sergeant  had  no 
book  or  papers  whatsoever,  and  so  he  used  to 
make  his  report  in  the  morning  on  a  clean 
shingle,  with  a  piece  of  lead  pencil  not  so  gross 
as  that."  He  indicated  a  short  and  stubby  finger 
end. 

*  'Long  'bout  then  we  could  'a'  kept  all  the 
rations  we  drew  on  a  clean  shingle  too — eh, 

[79] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


Herman?"  wheezed  Judge  Priest.  "And  the 
shingle  wouldn't  'a'  been  loaded  down  at  that! 
My,  my!  Ever'  time  I  think  of  that  winter  of 
'64  I  find  myse'f  gittin'  hongry  all  over  agin!" 
And  the  judge  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
and  laughed  his  high,  thin  laugh. 

Then,  noting  the  others  had  not  yet  rallied 
back  again  to  the  point  where  the  flow  of  remi 
niscences  had  been  checked  by  Press  Harper's 
labial  slip-up,  he  had  an  inspiration. 

"Speakin'  of  roll  calls,"  he  said,  uncon 
sciously  parroting  Mr.  Felsburg,  "seems  to  me 
it's  'bout  time  we  had  ours.  The  vittles  end  of 
this  here  dinner  'pears  to  be  'bout  over.  Zach" 
— throwing  the  suggestion  across  his  shoulder — 
"you  and  your  pardners'd  better  be  fetchin'  on 
the  coffee  and  the  seegars,  I  reckin."  He  faced 
front  again,  raising  his  voice:  "Who's  callin'  the 
roll  to-night?" 

"I  am,"  answered  Professor  Reese;  and  at 
once  he  got  on  his  feet,  adjusted  his  spectacles 
just  so,  and  drew  from  an  inner  breast  pocket 
of  his  long  frock  coat  a  stained  and  frayed  scroll, 
made  of  three  sheets  of  tough  parchment  paper 
pasted  end  to  end. 

He  cleared  his  throat;  and,  as  though  the 
sound  had  been  a  command,  his  fellow  members 
bent  forward,  with  faces  composed  to  earnest 
ness.  None  observed  how  the  stranger  acted; 
indeed,  he  had  been  quite  out  of  the  picture  and 
as  good  as  forgotten  for  the  better  part  of  an 
hour.  Certainly  nobody  was  interested  in  him 
[80] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

at  this  moment  when  there  impended  what,  to 
that  little  group,  was  a  profoundly  solemn, 
highly  sentimental  thing. 

Again  Professor  Reese  cleared  his  throat,  then 
spoke  the  name  that  was  written  in  faded  letters 
at  the  top  of  the  roll — the  name  of  him  who  had 
been  their  first  captain  and,  at  the  last,  their 
brigade  commander. 

"Died  the  death  of  a  hero  in  an  effort  to  save 
others  at  Cotton  wood  Bar,  June  28,  1871,"  said 
Judge  Priest;  and  he  saluted,  with  his  finger 
against  his  forehead. 

One  by  one  the  old  school-teacher  called  off 
the  list  of  commissioned  and  noncommissioned 
officers.  Squire  Futrell,  who  had  attained  to 
the  eminence  of  a  second  corporal's  place,  was 
the  only  one  who  answered  for  himself.  For 
each  of  the  others,  including  Lieutenant  Garrett 
— he  of  the  game  leg  and  the  plantation  in  Mis 
sissippi — somebody  else  answered,  giving  the 
manner  and,  if  he  remembered  it,  the  date  of 
that  man's  death.  For,  excepting  Garrett,  they 
were  all  dead. 

The  professor  descended  to  the  roster  of 
enlisted  men: 

"AbnerP.Ashbrook!" 

"Died  in  Camp  Chase  as  a  prisoner  of  war." 

"G.  W.  Ayres!" 

"Killed  at  Baker's  Creek." 

"R.  M.  Bigger!" 

"Moved  to  Missouri  after  the  war,  was 
elected  state  senator,  and  died  in  '89. " 

[81] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


"Reuben  Brame!" 

"Honourably  discharged  after  being  wounded 
at  Corinth,  and  disappeared.  Believed  to  be 
dead." 

"  Robert  Burnell!" 

"Murdered  by  bushwhackers  in  East  Ten 
nessee  on  his  way  home  after  the  Surrender." 

So  it  went  down  the  long  column*  of  names. 
They  were  names,  many  of  them,  which  once 
stood  for  something  in  that  community  but 
which  would  have  fallen  with  an  unfamiliar 
sound  upon  the  ears  of  the  oncoming  generation 
— old  family  names  of  the  old  town.  But  the 
old  families  had  died  out  or  had  scattered,  as  is 
the  way  with  old  families,  and  the  names  were 
only  pronounced  when  Company  B  met  or  when 
some  idler,  dawdling  about  the  cemetery,  de 
ciphered  the  lichen-grown  lines  on  gray  and 
crumbly  grave-stones.  Only  once  in  a  while  did 
a  voice  respond,  "Here!"  But  always  the 
"Here!"  was  spoken  clearly  and  loudly  and  at 
that,  the  remaining  twelve  would  hoist  their 
voices  in  a  small  cheer. 

By  common  consent  certain  survivors  spoke 
for  certain  departed  members.  For  example, 
when  the  professor  came  to  one  name  down 
among  the  L's,  Peter  J.  Galloway,  who  was  an 
incorruptible  and  unshakable  Roman  of  the 
party  of  Jefferson  and  Jackson,  blared  out: 
"Turn't  Republikin  in  '96,  and  by  the  same 
token  died  that  same  year!"  And  when  he 
reached  the  name  of  Adolph  Ohlmann  it  was  Mr. 
[82] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

Felsburg's  place  to  tell  of  the  honourable  fate 
of  his  fellow  Jew,  who  fell  before  Atlanta. 

The  reader  read  on  and  on  until  his  voice  took 
on  a  huskened  note.  He  had  heard  "Here!" 
for  the  thirteenth  time;  he  had  come  to  the  very 
bottomest  lines  of  his  roster.  He  called  one 
more  name — Vilas,  it  was — and  then  he  rolled 
up  his  parchment  and  put  it  away. 

"The  records  show  that,  first  and  last,  Com 
pany  B  had  one  hundred  and  seventy-two 
members,  all  regularly  sworn  into  the  service  of 
the  Confederate  States  of  America  under  our 
beloved  President,  Jefferson  Davis,"  stated 
Professor  Reese  sonorously.  "Of  those  names, 
in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  this  organisa 
tion,  I  have  just  called  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
one.  The  roll  call  of  Company  B,  of  the  Old 
Regiment  of  mounted  infantry  serving  under 
General  Nathan  Bedford  Forrest,  is  completed 
for  the  current  year."  And  down  he  sat. 

As  Judge  Priest,  with  a  little  sigh,  settled  back 
in  his  chair,  his  glance  fell  on  the  face  of  the  man 
next  him.  Perhaps  the  old  judge's  eyes  were  not 
as  good  as  once  they  had  been.  Perhaps  the 
light  was  faulty.  At  any  rate,  he  interpreted 
the  look  that  was  on  the  other's  face  as  a  look  of 
loneliness.  Ordinarily  the  judge  was  a  pretty 
good  hand  at  reading  faces  too. 

"Looky  here,  boys!"  he  called  out,  with  such 

emphasis  as  to  centre  general  attention  on  the 

upper    end    of    the    table.      "We   oughter   be 

'shamed    of    ourselves — carryin'    on    this    way 

[83] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


'mongst  ourselves  and  plum'  furgittin'  we  had 
an  outsider  with  us  ez  a  special  guest.  Our  new 
friend  here  is  'bout  the  proper  age  to  have  seen 
service  in  the  war  his  own  se'f — mebbe  he  did 
see  some.  Of  all  the  states  that  fought  ag'inst 
us,  none  of  'em  turned  out  better  soldiers  than 
old  Illinoy  did.  If  my  guess  is  right  I  move  we 
hear  frum  Mr.  Watts,  frum  Illinoy,  on  some  of 
his  own  wartime  experiences."  His  hand 
dropped,  with  a  heartening  thump,  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  stranger.  "Come  on,  colonel! 
We've  had  a  word  from  ever'body  exceptin'  you. 
It's  your  turn — ain't  it,  boys?" 

Before  his  question  might  be  answered,  Watts 
had  straightened  to  his  feet.  He  stood  rigidly, 
his  hands  driven  wrist-deep  into  his  coat  pock 
ets;  his  weather-beaten  face  set  in  heavy,  hard 
lines;  his  deep  eyes  fixed  on  a  spot  in  the  blank 
wall  above  their  heads. 

"You're  right — I  was  a  soldier  in  the  war 
between  the  States,"  he  said  in  a  thickened, 
quick  voice,  which  trembled  just  a  little;  "but 
I  didn't  serve  with  the  Illinois  troops.  I  didn't 
move  to  Illinois  until  after  the  war.  My  regi 
ment  was  as  good  a  regiment,  though,  and  as 
game  a  regiment,  as  fought  in  that  war  on 
either  side." 

Some  six  or  eight  broke  generously  into  a 
brisk  patter  of  handclapping  at  this,  and  from 
the  exuberant  Mr.  Galloway  came: 

"Whirroo!     That's  right — stick  up  for  yer 
own  side  always!    Go  on,  me  boy;  go  on!" 
[84] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

The  urging  was  unnecessary.  Watts  was 
going  on  as  though  he  had  not  been  interrupted, 
as  though  he  had  not  heard  the  friendly  ap 
plause,  as  though  his  was  a  tale  which  stood  in 
most  urgent  need  of  the  telling: 

"I'm  not  saying  much  of  my  first  year  as  a 
soldier.  I  wasn't  satisfied — well,  I  wasn't  hap 
pily  placed;  I'll  put  it  that  way.  I  had  hopes  at 
the  beginning  of  being  an  officer;  and  when  the 
company  election  was  held  I  lost  out.  Possibly  I 
was  too  ambitious  for  my  own  good.  I  came  to 
know  that  I  was  not  popular  with  the  rest  of  the 
company.  My  captain  didn't  like  me,  either,  I 
thought.  Maybe  I  was  morbid;  maybe  I  was 
homesick.  I  know  I  was  disappointed.  You 
men  have  all  been  soldiers — you  know  how 
those  things  go.  I  did  my  duty  after  a  fashion — 
I  didn't  skulk  or  hang  back  from  danger — but  I 
didn't  do  it  cheerfully.  I  moped  and  I  suppose 
I  complained  a  lot. 

"Well,  finally  I  left  that  company  and  that 
regiment.  I  just  quit.  I  didn't  quit  under 
fire;  but  I  quit — in  the  night.  I  think  I  must 
have  been  half  crazy;  I'd  been  brooding  too 
much.  In  a  day  or  two  I  realised  that  I  couldn't 
go  back  home — which  was  where  I  had  started 
for — and  I  wouldn't  go  over  to  the  enemy. 
Badly  as  I  had  behaved,  the  idea  of  playing^  the 
outright  traitor  never  entered  my  mind.  I 
want  you  to  know  that.  So  I  thought  the  thing 
over  for  a  day  or  two.  I  had  time  for  thinking 
it  over — alone  there  in  that  swamp  where  I  was 
[85] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


hiding.  I've  never  spoken  of  that  shameful 
thing  in  my  life  since  then — not  until  to-night. 
I  tried  not  to  think  of  it — but  I  always  have — 
every  day. 

"Well,  I  came  to  a  decision  at  last.  I  closed 
the  book  on  my  old  self;  I  wiped  out  the  past. 
I  changed  my  name  and  made  up  a  story  to 
account  for  myself;  but  I  thank  God  I  didn't 
change  flags  and  I  didn't  change  sides.  I  was 
wearing  that  new  name  of  mine  when  I  came 
out  of  those  woods,  and  under  it  I  enlisted  in  a 
regiment  that  had  been  recruited  in  a  state  two 
hundred  miles  away  from  my  own  state.  I 
served  with  it  until  the  end  of  the  war — as  a 
private  in  the  ranks. 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  the  part  I  played  those 
last  three  years.  I'm  proud  of  it !  As  God  is  my 
judge,  I  did  my  whole  duty  then.  I  was  com 
mended  in  general  orders  once;  my  name  was 
mentioned  in  despatches  to  the  War  Department 
once.  That  time  I  was  offered  a  commission; 
but  I  didn't  take  it.  I  bear  in  my  body  the 
marks  of  three  wounds.  I've  got  a  chunk  of 
lead  as  big  as  your  thumb  in  my  shoulder. 
There's  a  little  scar  up  here  in  my  scalp,  under 
the  hair,  where  a  splinter  from  a  shell  gashed  me. 
One  of  my  legs  is  a  little  bit  shorter  than  the 
other.  In  the  very  last  fight  I  was  in  a  spent 
cannon  ball  came  along  and  broke  both  the 
bones  in  that  leg.  I've  got  papers  to  prove  that 
from  '62  to  '65  I  did  my  best  for  my  cause  and 
my  country.  I've  got  them  here  with  me  now — 
[86] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

I  carry  them  with  me  in  the  daytime  and  I  sleep 
at  night  with  them  under  my  pillow." 

With  his  right  hand  he  fumbled  in  his  breast 
pocket  and  brought  out  two  time-yellowed  slips 
of  paper  and  held  them  high  aloft,  clenched  and 
crumpled  up  in  a  quivering  fist. 

"One  of  these  papers  is  my  honourable  dis 
charge.  The  other  is  a  letter  that  the  old  colonel 
of  my  regiment  wrote  to  me  with  his  own  hand 
two  months  before  he  died." 

He  halted  and  his  eyes,  burning  like  red  coals 
under  the  thick  brows,  ranged  the  faces  that 
looked  up  into  his.  His  own  face  worked.  When 
he  spoke  again  he  spoke  as  a  prisoner  at  the  bar 
might  speak,  making  a  last  desperate  appeal  to 
the  jury  trying  him  for  his  life: 

"You  men  have  all  been  soldiers.  I  ask  you 
this  now,  as  a  soldier  standing  among  soldiers — 
I  ask  you  if  my  record  of  three  years  of  hard  ser 
vice  and  hard  fighting  can  square  me  up  for  the 
one  slip  I  made  when  I  was  hardly  more  than  a 
boy  in  years?  I  ask  you  that?" 

With  one  voice,  then,  the  jury  answered.  Its 
verdict  was  acquittal — and  not  alone  acquittal 
but  vindication.  Had  you  been  listening  outside 
you  would  have  sworn  that  fifty  men  and  not  thir 
teen  were  yelling  at  the  tops  of  their  lungs,  beat 
ing  on  the  table  with  all  the  might  in  their  arms. 

The  old  man  stood  for  a  minute  longer.    Then 

suddenly  all  the  rigidity  seemed  to  go  out  of 

him.    He  fell  into  his  chair  and  put  his  face  in  his 

two  cupped  hands.    The  papers  he  had  bran- 

[87] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


dished  over  his  head  slipped  out  of  his  fingers  and 
dropped  on  the  tablecloth.  Orfe  of  them — a  flat, 
unfolded  slip — settled  just  in  front  of  Doctor 
Lake.  Governed  partly  by  an  instinct  operating 
automatically,  partly  to  hide  his  own  emotions, 
which  had  been  roused  to  a  considerable  degree, 
Doctor  Lake  bent  and  spelled  out  the  first  few 
words.  His  head  came  up  with  a  jerk  of  pro 
found  surprise  and  gratification. 

"Why,  this  is  signed  by  John  B.  Gordon  him 
self!"  he  snorted.  He  twisted  about,  reaching 
out  for  Judge  Priest.  "Billy!  Billy  Priest! 
Why,  look  here!  Why,  this  man's  no  Yankee! 
Not  by  a  dam'  sight  he's  not!  Why,  he  served 
with  a  Georgia  regiment!  Why 

But  Judge  Priest  never  heard  a  word  of  what 
Doctor  Lake  was  saying.  His  old  blue  eyes 
stared  at  the  stranger's  left  hand.  On  the  back 
of  that  hand,  standing  out  upon  the  corded 
tendons  and  the  wrinkled  brown  skin,  blazed  a 
red  spot,  shaped  like  a  dumb-bell,  a  birthmark 
of  most  unusual  pattern. 

Judge  Priest  stared  and  stared;  and  as  he 
stared  a  memory  that  was  nearly  as  old  as  he 
was  crept  out  from  beneath  a  neglected  con 
volution  in  the  back  part  of  his  brain,  and  grew 
and  spread  until  it  filled  his  amazed,  startled, 
scarce-believing  mind.  So  it  was  no  wonder  he 
did  not  hear  Doctor  Lake;  no  wonder  he  did 
not  see  black  Tobe  Emery  stealing  up  behind 
him,  with  popped  eyes  likewise  fixed  on  that 

red  dumb-bell-shaped  mark. 

[88] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

No;  Judge  Priest  did  not  hear  a  word.  As 
Doctor  Lake  faced  about  the  other  way  to 
spread  his  wonderful  discovery  down  the  table 
and  across  it,  the  judge  bent  forward  and 
touched  the  fourteenth  guest  on  the  -shoulder 
very  gently. 

"Pardner,"  he  asked,  apparently  apropos  of 
nothing  that  had  happened  since  the  dinner 
started — "Pardner,  when  was  the  first  time  you 
heard  about  this  here  meetin'  of  Company  B — 
the  first  time?" 

Through  the  interlaced  fingers  of  the  other 
the  answer  came  haltingly: 

"I  read  about  it — in  a  Chicago  Sunday  paper 
— three  weeks  ago." 

"But  you  knew  before  that  there  was  a  Com 
pany  B  down  here  in  this  town?" 

Without  -  raising  his  head  or  baring  his  face, 
the  other  nodded.  Judge  Priest  overturned  his 
coffee  cup  as  he  got  to  his  feet,  but  took  no  heed 
of  the  resultant  damage  to  the  cloth  on  the  table 
and  the  fronts  of  his  white  trouser  legs. 

"Boys,"  he  cried  out  so  shrilly,  so  eagerly,  so 
joyously,  that  they  all  jumped,  "when  you 
foller  after  Holy  Writ  you  can't  never  go  fur 
wrong.  You're  liable  to  breed  a  miracle.  A 
while  ago  we  took  a  lesson  from  the  Parable  of 
the  Rich  Man  that  give  a  dinner;  and — lo  and 
behold ! — another  parable  and  a  better  parable — 
yes,  the  sweetest  parable  of  'em  all — has  come 
to  pass  and  been  repeated  here  'mongst  us 
without  our  ever  knowin'  it  or  even  suspectin'  it. 

[89] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


The  Prodigal  Son  didn't  enjoy  the  advantage  of 
havin'  a  Chicago  Sunday  paper  to  read,  but  in 
due  season  he  came  back  home — that  other 
Prodigal  did;  and  it  stands  written  in  the  text 
that  he  was  f urgiven,  and  that  a  feast  was  made 
fur  him  in  the  house  of  his  fathers." 

His  tone  changed  to  one  of  earnest  demand: 

"Lycurgus  Reese,  finish  the  roll  call  of  this 
company — finish  it  right  now,  this  minute — the 
way  it  oughter  be  finished ! " 

"Why,  Judge  Priest,"  said  Professor  Reese, 
still  in  the  dark  and  filled  with  wonderment, 
"it  is  already  finished!" 

As  though  angered  almost  beyond  control, 
the  judge  snapped  back: 

"It  ain't  finished,  neither.  It  ain't  been 
rightly  finished  from  the  very  beginnin'  of  these 
dinners.  It  ain't  finished  till  you  call  the  very 
last  name  that's  on  that  list." 

"But,  Judge- 

"But  nothin'!  You  call  that  last  name,  Ly 
curgus  Reese;  and  you  be  almighty  quick  about 
it!" 

There  was  no  need  for  the  old  professor,  thus 
roughly  bidden,  to  haul  out  his  manuscript.  He 
knew  well  enough  the  name,  though  wittingly  it 
had  not  passed  his  lips  for  forty  years  or  more. 
So  he  spoke  it  out: 

"Sylvester  B.  Washburn!" 

The  man  they  had  called  Watts  raised  in  his 
place  and  dropped  his  clenched  hands  to  his 
sides,  and  threw  off  the  stoop  that  was  in  his 
[90] 


A  BLENDING  OF  THE  PARABLES 

shoulders.  He  lifted  his  wetted  eyes  to  the 
cracked,  stained  ceiling  above.  He  peered  past 
plaster  and  rafter  and  roof,  and  through  a  rift  in 
the  skies  above  he  feasted  his  famished  vision  on 
a  delectable  land  which  others  might  not  see. 
And  then,  beholding  on  his  face  that  look  of  one 
who  is  confessed  and  shriven,  purified  and 
atoned  for,  the  scales  fell  away  from  their  own 
eyes  and  they  marvelled — not  that  they  knew 
him  now,  but  that  they  had  not  known  him 
before  now.  And  for  a  moment  or  two  there 
was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard. 

"Sylvester  B.  Washburn!"  repeated  Profes 
sor  Reese. 

And  the  prodigal  answered: 

"Here!" 


[91] 


Ill 

JUDGE  PRIEST  COMES  BACK 


FROM  time  to  time  persons  of  an  inquir 
ing  turn  of  mind  have  been  moved 
audibly  to  speculate — I  might  even  say 
to  ponder — regarding  the  enigma  un 
derlying  the  continued  presence  in  the  halls 
of  our  National  Congress  of  the  Honourable 
Dabney  Prentiss.  All  were  as  one  in  agreeing 
that  he  had  a  magnificent  delivery,  but  in  this 
same  connection  it  has  repeatedly  been  pointed 
out  that  he  so  rarely  had  anything  to  deliver. 
Some  few  among  this  puzzled  contingent,  know 
ing,  as  they  did,  the  habits  and  customs  of 
the  people  down  in  our  country,  could  under 
stand  that  in  a  corner  of  the  land  where  the  gift 
of  tongue  is  still  highly  revered  and  the  golden 
chimings  of  a  full- jewelled  throat  are  not  yet 
entirely  lost  in  the  click  of  cash  registers  and 
the  whir  of  looms,  how  the  Honourable  Dabney 
within  his  limitations  might  have  been  oratori- 
cally  conspicuous  and  politically  useful,  not 
alone  to  himself  but  to  others.  But  as  a  con- 
[92] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

structive  statesman  sent  up  to  Washington, 
District  of  Columbia,  and  there  engaged  in 
shaping  loose  ends  of  legislation  into  the  welded 
and  the  tempered  law,  they  could  not  seem  to  see 
him  at  all.  It  was  such  a  one,  an  editorial  writer 
upon  a  metropolitan  daily,  who  once  referred 
to  Representative  Prentiss  as  The  Human  Voice. 
The  title  stuck,  a  fact  patently  testifying  to  its 
aptness.  That  which  follows  here  in  this  chapter 
is  an  attempt  to  explain  the  mystery  of  this  gen 
tleman's  elevation  to  the  high  places  which  he 
recently  adorned. 

To  go  back  to  the  very  start  of  things  we  must 
first  review  briefly  the  case  of  old  Mr.  Lysander 
John  Curd,  even  though  he  be  but  an  incidental 
figure  in  the  narrative.  He  was  born  to  be  inci 
dental,  I  reckon,  heredity,  breeding  and  the 
chance  of  life  all  conspiring  together  to  fit  him 
for  that  inconsequential  role.  He  was  born  to 
be  a  background.  The  one  thing  he  ever  did  in 
all  his  span  on  earth  to  bring  him  for  a  moment 
into  the  front  of  the  picture  was  that,  having 
reached  middle  age,  he  took  unto  himself  a 
young  wife.  But  since  he  kept  her  only  long 
enough  to  lose  her,  even  this  circumstance  did 
not  serve  to  focus  the  attention  of  the  commun 
ity  upon  his  uncoloured  personality  for  any  con 
siderable  period  of  time. 

Considering  him  in  all  his  aspects — as  a  volun 
teer  soldier  in  the  Great  War,  as  a  district  school 
teacher,  as  a  merchant  in  our  town,  as  a  bachelor 
of  long  standing,  as  a  husband  for  a  fleeting 
[93] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


space,  and  as  a  grass  widower  for  the  rest  of  his 
days — I  have  gleaned  that  he  never  did  anything 
ignoble  or  anything  conspicuous.  Indeed,  I 
myself,  who  knew  him  as  a  half -grown  boy  may 
know  a  middle-aged  man,  find  it  hard  after  the 
lapse  of  years  to  describe  him  physically  for  you. 
I  seem  to  recall  that  he  was  neither  tall  nor 
short,  neither  thick  nor  thin.  He  had  the  custo 
mary  number  of  limbs  and  the  customary  num 
ber  of  features  arranged  in  the  customary  way — 
I  know  that,  of  course.  It  strikes  me  that  his 
eyes  were  mild  and  gentle,  that  he  was,  as  the 
saying  runs,  soft-spoken  and  that  his  whiskers 
were  straggly  and  thin,  like  young  second  growth 
in  a  new  clearing;  also  that  he  wore  his  winter 
overcoat  until  the  hot  suns  of  springtime 
scorched  it,  and  that  he  clung  to  his  summer 
alpaca  and  his  straw  hat  until  the  frosts  of 
autumn  came  along  and  nipped  them  with  the 
sweet-gum  and  the  dogwood.  That  lets  me  out. 
Excusing  these  things,  he  abides  merely  as  a 
blur  in  my  memory. 

On  a  certain  morning  of  a  certain  year,  the 
month  being  April,  Judge  Priest  sat  at  his  desk 
in  his  chamber,  so-called,  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  long  hall  in  the  old  courthouse,  as  you 
came  in  from  the  Jefferson  Street  door.  He  was 
shoulders  deep  down  in  his  big  chair,  with  both 
his  plump  legs  outstretched  and  one  crossed 
over  the  other,  and  he  was  reading  a  paper- 
bound  volume  dealing  in  the  main  with  certain 
inspiring  episodes  in  the  spectacular  life  of  a 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

Western  person  known  as  Trigger  Sam.  On  his 
way  downtown  from  home  that  morning  he  had 
stopped  by  Wilcox  &  Powell's  bookstore  and 
purchased  this  work  at  the  price  of  five  cents;  it 
was  the  latest  production  of  the  facile  pen  of  a 
popular  and  indefatigable  author  of  an  earlier 
day  than  this,  the  late  Ned  Buntline,  In  his 
hours  of  leisure  and  seclusion  the  judge  dearly 
loved  a  good  nickel  library,  especially  one  with  a 
lot  of  shooting  and  some  thrilling  rescues  in  it. 
Now  he  was  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the  most 
exciting  chapters  when  there  came  a  mild  rap 
at  the  outer  door.  Judge  Priest  slid  the  Trigger 
Sam  book  into  a  half-open  drawer  and  called 
out: 

"Come  right  on  in,  whoever  'tis." 

The  door  opened  and  old  Mr.  Lysander  John 
Curd  entered,  in  his  overcoat,  with  his  head 
upon  his  chest. 

"Good  morning,  Judge  Priest,"  he  said  in  his 
gentle  halting  drawl;  "could  I  speak  with  you  in 
private  a  minute?  It's  sort  of  a  personal  matter 
and  I  wouldn't  care  to  have  anybody  maybe 
overhearing." 

"You  most  certainly  could,"  said  Judge 
Priest.  He  glanced  through  into  the  adjoining 
room  at  the  back,  where  Circuit  Clerk  Milam 
and  Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong,  heads  together,  were 
busy  over  the  clerical  details  of  the  forthcoming 
term  of  circuit  court.  Arising  laboriously  from 
his  comfortable  place  he  waddled  across  and 
kicked  the  open  door  between  the  two  rooms 
[95] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


shut  with  a  thrust  of  a  foot  clad  in  a  box-toed, 
low-quartered  shoe.  On  his  way  back  to  his 
desk  he  brushed  an  accumulation  of  old  papers 
out  of  a  cane-bottomed  chair.  "Set  down  here, 
Ly sandy,"  he  said  in  that  high  whiny  voice  of 
his,  "and  let's  hear  whut's  on  your  mind.  Nice 
weather,  ain't  it?" 

An  eavesdropper  trained,  mayhap,  in  the 
psychology  of  tone  and  gesture  might  have 
divined  from  these  small  acts  and  this  small 
utterance  that  Judge  Priest  had  reasons  for  sus 
pecting  what  was  on  his  caller's  mind;  as  though 
this  visit  was  not  entirely  unexpected,  even 
though  he  had  had  no  warning  of  it.  There  was 
in  the  judge's  words  an  intangible  inflection  of 
understanding,  say,  or  sympathy;  no,  call  it 
compassion — that  would  be  nearer  to  it.  The 
two  old  men — neither  of  them  would  ever  see 
sixty-five  again — lowered  themselves  into  the 
two  chairs  and  sat  facing  each  other  across  the 
top  of  the  judge's  piled  and  dusty  desk. 
Through  his  steel-rimmed  glasses  the  judge 
fixed  a  pair  of  kindly,  but  none-the-less  keen, 
blue  eyes  on  Mr.  Lysander  Curd's  sagged  and 
slumped  figure.  There  was  despondency  and 
there  was  embarrassment  in  all  the  drooping 
lines  of  that  elderly  frame.  Judge  Priest's  lips 
drew  up  tightly,  and  unconsciously  he  nodded — 
the  brief  nod  that  a  surgeon  might  employ  on 
privately  confirming  a  private  diagnosis. 

The  other  did  not  detect  these  things — neither 
the  puckering  of  the  lips  nor  the  small  forward 
[96] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

bend  of  the  judge's  head.  His  own  chin  was  in 
his  collar  and  his  own  averted  eyes  were  on  the 
floor.  One  of  his  hands — a  gnarly,  rather  with 
ered  hand  it  must  have  been — reached  forth 
absently  and  fumbled  at  a  week-old  copy  of  the 
Daily  Evening  News  that  rested  upon  a  corner 
of  the  desk.  The  twining  fingers  tore  a  little 
strip  loose  from  the  margin  of  a  page  and  rolled 
it  up  into  a  tiny  wad. 

For  perhaps  half  a  minute  there  was  nothing 
said.  Then  Judge  Priest  bent  forward  suddenly 
and  touched  the  nearermost  sleeve  of  Mr.  Curd 
with  a  gentle  little  half -pat. 

"Well,  Lysandy?"  he  prompted. 

"Well,  Judge."  The  words  were  the  first  the 
visitor  had  uttered  since  his  opening  speech,  and 
they  came  from  him  reluctantly.  "Well,  sir,  it 
would  seem  like  I  hardly  know  how  to  start. 
This  is  a  mighty  personal  matter  that  I've  come 
to  see  you  in  regards  to — and  it's  just  a  little  bit 
hard  to  speak  about  it  even  to  somebody  that 
I've  known  most  of  my  life,  same  as  I've  always 
known  you.  But  things  in  my  home  have  finally 
come  to  a  head,  and  before  the  issue  reaches  you 
in  an  official  capacity  as  the  judge  on  the  bench 
I  sort  of  felt  like  it  might  help  some — might 
make  the  whole  thing  pass  off  easier  for  all  con 
cerned — if  I  could  have  a  few  words  with  you 
privately,  as  a  friend  and  as  a  former  comrade 
in  arms  on  the  field  of  battle." 

"Yes,  Lysandy,  go  ahead.     I'm  listenin'," 
stated  Judge  Priest,  as  the  other  halted. 
[97] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


Old  Mr.  Curd  raised  his  face  and  in  his  faded 
eyes  there  was  at  once  a  bewildered  appeal  and 
a  fixed  and  definite  resolution.  He  spoke  on 
very  slowly  and  carefully,  choosing  his  words  as 
he  went,  but  without  faltering: 

"I  don't  know  as  you  know  about  it,  Judge 
Priest — the  chances  are  you  naturally  wouldn't 
— but  in  a  domestic  way  things  haven't  been 
going  very  smoothly  with  me — with  us,  I  should 
say — for  quite  a  spell  back.  I  reckon  after  all 
it's  a  mistake  on  the  part  of  a  man  after  he's 
reached  middle  age  and  got  set  in  his  ways  to  be 
taking  a  young  wife,  more  especially  if  he  can't 
take  care  of  her  in  the  way  she's  been  used  to,  or 
anyhow  in  the  way  she'd  like  to  be  taken  care  of. 
I  suppose  it's  only  human  nature  for  a  young 
woman  to  hanker  after  considerable  many  things 
that  a  man  like  me  can't  always  give  her — 
jewelry  and  pretty  things,  and  social  life,  and 
running  round  and  seeing  people,  and  such  as 
that.  And  Luella — well,  Luella  really  ain't 
much  more  than  a  girl  herself  yet,  is  she?  " 

The  question  remained  unanswered.  It  was 
plain,  too,  that  Mr.  Curd  had  expected  no 
answer  to  it,  for  he  went  straight  on: 

"So  I  feel  as  if  the  blame  for  what's  happened 
is  most  of  it  mine.  I  reckon  I  was  too  old  to  be 
thinking  about  getting  married  in  the  first  place. 
And  I  wasn't  very  well  off  then  either — not  well 
enough  off  to  have  the  money  I  should  Ve  had  if 
I  expected  to  make  Luella  contented.  Still, 
all  that  part  of  it's  got  nothing  to  do  with  the 
[98] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

matter  as  it  stands — I'm  just  telling  it  to  you, 
Judge,  as  a  friend." 

"I  understand,  Lysandy,"  said  Judge  Priest 
almost  in  the  tone  which  he  might  have  used  to 
an  unhappy  child.  "This  is  all  a  strict  confi 
dence  between  us  two  and  this  is  all  the  further 
it'll  ever  go,  so  fur  ez  I'm  concerned,  without 
you  authorise  me  to  speak  of  it." 

He  waited  for  what  would  come  next.  It  came 
in  slow,  steady  sentences,  with  the  regularity  of 
a  statement  painfully  rehearsed  beforehand : 

"Judge  Priest,  I've  never  been  a  believer  in 
divorce  as  a  general  thing.  It  seemed  to  me 
there  was  too  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  going  on 
round  this  country.  That's  always  been  my  own 
private  doctrine,  more  or  less.  But  in  my  own 
case  I've  changed  my  mind.  We've  been  talking 
it  over  back  and  forth  and  we've  decided — 
Luella  and  me  have — that  under  the  circum 
stances  a  divorce  is  the  best  thing  for  both  of  us; 
in  fact  we've  decided  that  it's  the  only  thing. 
I  want  that  Luella  should  be  happy  and  I  think 
maybe  I'll  feel  easier  in  my  own  mind  when  it's 
all  over  and  done  with  and  settled  up  according 
to  the  law.  I'm  aiming  to  do  what's  best  for 
both  parties — and  I  want  that  Luella  should  be 
happy.  I  want  that  she  should  be  free  to  live 
her  own  life  in  her  own  way  without  me  hamper 
ing  her.  She's  young  and  she's  got  her  whole  life 
before  her — that's  what  I'm  thinking  of." 

He  paused  and  with  his  tongue  he  moistened 

his  lips,  which  seemed  dry.        

199] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  didn't  feel  this 
way  about  it  first-off .  It  was  a  pretty  tolerably 
hard  jolt  to  me — the  way  the  proposition  first 
came  up.  I've  spent  a  good  many  sleepless 
nights  thinking  it  over.  At  least  I  couldn't 
sleep  very  much  for  thinking  of  it,"  he  amended 
with  the  literal  impulse  of  a  literal  mind  to  state 
things  exactly  and  without  exaggeration.  "And 
then  finally  I  saw  my  way  clear  to  come  to  this 
decision.  And  so ' 

"Lysandy  Curd,"  broke  in  Judge  Priest,  "I 
don't  aim  to  give  you  any  advice.  In  the  first 
place,  you  ain't  asked  fur  it;  and  in  the  second 
place,  even  ef  you  had  asked,  I'd  hesitate  a 
monstrous  long  time  before  I'd  undertake  to 
advise  any  man  about  his  own  private  family 
affairs.  But  I  jest  want  to  ask  you  one  thing 
right  here:  It  wasn't  you,  was  it,  that  first  pro 
posed  the  idea  of  this  here  divorce?" 

"Well,  no,  Judge,  I  don't  believe  'twas,"  con 
fessed  the  old  man  whose  misery-reddened  eyes 
looked  into  Judge  Priest's  from  across  the  lit 
tered  desk.  "I  can't  say  as  it  was  me  that  first 
suggested  it.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
The  point  I'm  trying  to  get  at  is  just  this : 

"The  papers  have  all  been  drawn  up  and 
they'll  be  bringing  them  in  here  sometime  to-day 
to  be  filed — the  lawyers  in  the  case  will,  Bigger 
&  Quigley.  Naturally,  with  me  and  Luella 
agreeing  as  to  everything,  there's  not  going  to 
be  any  fight  made  in  your  court.  And  after  it's 
all  over  I'm  aiming  to  sell  out  my  feed  store— 
[  100  ] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

it  seems  like  I  haven't  been  able  to  make  it  pay 
these  last  few  months,  the  same  as  it  used  to 
pay,  and  debts  have  sort  of  piled  up  on  me  some 
way.  I  reckon  the  fellow  that  said  two  could 
live  as  cheap  as  one  didn't  figure  on  one  of  them 
being  a  young  woman — pretty  herself  and  want 
ing  pretty  things  to  wear  and  have  round  the 
house.  But  I  shouldn't  say  that — I've  come  to 
see  how  it's  mainly  my  fault,  and  I'm  figuring 
on  how  to  spare  Luella  in  every  way  that  it's 
possible  to  spare  her.  So  as  I  was  saying,  I'm 
figuring,  when  it's  all  over,  on  selling  out  my 
interests  here,  such  as  they  are,  and  going  back 
to  live  on  that  little  farm  I  own  out  yonder  in 
the  Lone  Elm  district.  It's  got  a  mortgage  on  it 
that  I  put  on  it  here  some  months  back,  but  I 
judge  I  can  lift  that  and  get  the  place  clear 
again,  if  I'm  given  a  fair  amount  of  time  to  do 
it  in. 

"And  now  that  everything's  been  made  clear 
to  you,  I  want  to  ask  you,  Judge,  to  do  all  in 
your  power  to  make  things  as  easy  as  you  can 
for  Luella.  I'd  a  heap  rather  there  wouldn't  be 
any  fuss  made  over  this  case  in  the  newspapers. 
It's  just  a  straight,  simple  divorce  suit,  and 
after  all  it's  just  between  me  and  my  present 
wife,  and  it's  more  our  business  than  'tis  any 
body  else's.  So,  seeing  as  the  case  is  not  going  to 
be  defended,  I'd  take  it  as  a  mighty  big  favour 
on  your  part  if  you'd  shove  it  up  on  the  docket 
for  the  coming  term  of  court,  starting  next 
Monday,  so  as  we  could  get  it  done  and  over 
[101] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


with  just  as  soon  as  possible.  That's  my  per 
sonal  wish,  and  I  know  it's  Luella's  wish  too.  In 
fact  she's  right  anxious  on  that  particular  point. 
And  here's  one  more  thing:  I  reckon  that  young 
Rawlings  boy,  that's  taken  a  job  reporting  news 
items  for  the  Daily  Evening  News,  will  be  round 
here  in  the  course  of  the  day,  won't  he?" 

"He  likely  will,"  said  Judge  Priest;  "he  comes 
every  day — purty  near  it.  Why?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Curd,  "I  don't  know  him 
myself  except  by  sight,  and  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
was  in  a  position  to  be  asking  him  to  do  anything 
for  me.  But  I  thought,  maybe,  if  you  spoke  to 
him  yourself  when  he  came,  and  put  it  on  the 
grounds  of  a  favour  to  you,  maybe  he'd  not  put 
any  more  than  just  a  little  short  piece  in  the 
paper  saying  suit  had  been  filed — Curd  against 
Curd — for  a  plain  divorce,  or  maybe  he  might 
leave  it  out  of  his  paper  altogether.  I'd  like  to 
see  Luella  shielded  from  any  newspaper  talk. 
It's  not  as  if  there  was  a  scandal  in  it  or  a  fight 
was  going  to  be  made."  He  bent  forward  in  his 
eagerness.  "Do  you  reckon  you  could  do  that 
much  for  me,  Judge  Priest — for  old  times'  sake?  " 

"Ah-hah,"  assented  Judge  Priest.  "I  reckin 
part  of  it  kin  be  arranged  anyway.  I  kin  have 
Lishy  Milam  set  the  case  forward  on  the  docket 
at  the  head  of  the  list  of  uiicontested  actions. 
And  I'll  mention  the  matter  to  that  there  young 
Rawlings  ef  you  want  me  to.  Speaking  person 
ally,  I  should  think  jest  a  line  or  two  ought  to 
satisfy  the  readers  of  the  Daily  Evenin9  News. 
[102] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

Of  course  him  bein'  a  reporter  and  all  that,  he'll 
probably  want  to  know  whut  the  facts  are  ez  set 
forth  in  your  petition — whut  allegations  are 
made  in— 

He  stopped  in  mid-speech,  seeing  how  the 
other  had  flinched  at  this  last.  Mr.  Curd  parted 
his  lips  to  interrupt,  but  the  old  judge,  having 
no  wish  to  flick  wounds  already  raw,  hurried  on: 

"Don't  you  worry,  Lysandy,  I'll  be  glad  to 
speak  to  young  Rawlings.  I  jedge  you've  got  no 
call  to  feel  uneasy  about  whut's  goin'  to  be  said 
in  print.  You  was  sayin'  jest  now  that  the 
papers  would  be  filed  sometime  to-day?" 

"They'll  be  filed  to-day  sure." 

"And  no  defence  is  to  be  made?"  continued 
Judge  Priest,  tallying  off  the  points  on  his  fin 
gers.  "And  you've  retained  Bigger  &  Quigley 
to  represent  you — that's  right,  ain't  it?" 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  Judge,"  Mr.  Curd  was 
shaking  his  whity-grey  head  in  dissent.  "I've 
taken  up  a  lot  of  your  valuable  time  already, 
and  still  it  would  seem  like  I  haven't  succeeded 
in  getting  this  affair  all  straight  in  your  mind. 
Bigger  &  Quigley  are  not  going  to  represent  me. 
They're  going  to  represent  Luella." 

He  spoke  as  one  stating  an  accepted  and 
easily  understood  fact,  yet  at  the  words  Judge 
Priest  reared  back  as  far  as  his  chair  would  let 
him  go  and  his  ruddy  cheeks  swelled  out  with 
the  breath  of  amazement. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  demanded, 

"that  you  ain't  the  plaintiff  here?" 

[103] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


"Why,  Judge  Priest,"  answered  Mr.  Curd, 
"you  didn't  think  for  a  minute,  did  you,  that 
I'd  come  into  court  seeking  to  blacken  my  wife's 
good  name?  She's  been  thoughtless,  maybe, 
but  I  know  she  don't  mean  any  harm  by  it, 
and  besides  look  how  young  she  is.  It's  her,  of 
course,  that's  asking  for  this  divorce — I  thought 
you  understood  about  that  from  the  beginning." 

Still  in  his  posture  of  astonishment,  Judge 
Priest  put  another  question  and  put  it  briskly: 
"  Might  it  be  proper  fur  me  to  ask  on  what 
grounds  this  lady  is  suin'  you  fur  a  divorce?" 

A  wave  of  dull  red  ran  up  old  Mr.  Curd's 
throat  and  flooded  his  shamed  face  to  the  hair 
line. 

"On  two  grounds,"  he  said — "non-support 
and  drunkenness." 

"Non-support?" 

"Yes;  I  haven't  been  able  to  take  care  of  her 
lately  as  I  should  like  to,  on  account  of  my  busi 
ness  difficulties  and  all." 

"But  look  here  at  me,  Ly sandy  Curd — you 
ain't  no  drunkard.  You  never  was  one.  Don't 
tell  me  that!" 

"Well,  now,  Judge  Priest,"  argued  Mr.  Curd, 
"you  don't  know  about  my  private  habits,  and 
even  if  I  haven't  been  drinking  in  public  up  to 
now,  that's  no  sign  I'm  not  fixing  to  start  in 
doing  so.  Besides  which  my  keeping  silent 
shows  that  I  admit  to  everything,  don't  it? 
Well,  then?"  He  stood  up.  "Well,  I  reckon 
that's  all.  I  won't  be  detaining  you  any  longer. 
[104] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Judge,  and  I  wish  you 
good-day,  sir." 

For  once  Judge  Priest  forgot  his  manners. 
He  uttered  not  a  syllable,  but  only  stared 
through  his  spectacles  in  stunned  and  stricken 
silence  while  Mr.  Curd  passed  out  into  the 
hallway,  gently  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
Then  Judge  Priest  vented  his  emotions  in  a 
series  of  snorts. 

In  modern  drama  what  is  technically  known 
as  the  stage  aside  has  gone  out  of  vogue;  it  is 
called  old-fashioned.  Had  a  latter-day  play 
wright  been  there  then,  he  would  have  resented 
the  judge's  thoughtlessness  in  addressing  empty 
space.  Nevertheless  that  was  exactly  what  the 
judge  did. 

"Under  the  strict  letter  of  the  law  I  ought  to 
throw  that  case  out  of  court,  I  s'pose.  But  I'm 
teetotally  dam'  ef  I  do  any  sech  thing!  .  .  . 
That  old  man's  heart  is  broke  now,  and  there 
ain't  no  earthly  reason  that  I  kin  think  of  why 
that  she-devil  should  be  allowed  to  tromp  on 
the  pieces.  And  that's  jest  exactly  whut  she'll 
do,  shore  ez  shootin',  unless  she's  let  free  mighty 
soon  to  go  her  own  gait.  .  .  .  Their  feet 
take  hold  on  hell.  .  .  .  I'll  bet  in  the  King 
dom  there'll  be  many  a  man  that  was  called 
a  simple-minded  fool  on  this  earth  that'll  wear 
the  biggest,  shiniest  halo  old  Peter  kin  find  in 
stock." 

He  reached  for  the  Trigger  Sam  book,  but 
put  it  back  again  in  the  drawer.  He  reached 
[105] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


into  a  gaping  side  pocket  of  his  coat  for  his 
corncob  pipe,  but  forgot  to  charge  the  fire- 
blackened  bowl  from  the  tobacco  cannister  that 
stood  handily  upon  his  desk.  Chewing  hard 
upon  the  discoloured  cane  stem  of  his  pipe,  he 
projected  himself  toward  the  back  room  and 
opened  the  door,  to  find  Mr.  Milam,  the  circuit 
clerk,  and  Mr.  Birdsong,  the  sheriff,  still  engaged 
together  in  official  duties  there. 

"Lishy,"  he  said  from  the  doorway,  "young 
Rawlings  generally  gits  round  here  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  evenin',  don't  he?" 

"Generally  about  two  or  two-thirty,"  said 
Mr.  Milam. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  to-day  when  he  comes 
tell  him,  please,  I  want  to  see  him  a  minute  in 
my  chambers." 

"What  if  you're  not  here?  Couldn't  I  give 
him  the  message?" 

"I'll  be  here,"  promised  the  judge.  "And 
there's  one  thing  more:  Bigger  &  Quigley  will 
file  a  divorce  petition  to-day — Curd  versus 
Curd  is  the  title  of  the  suit.  Put  it  at  the  head 
of  the  list  of  undefended  actions,  please,  Lishy, 
ez  near  the  top  of  the  docket  ez  you  kin." 

"Curd?  Is  it  the  Lysander  Curds,  Judge?" 
asked  Mr.  Milam. 

"  You  guessed  right  the  very  first  pop — it's  the 
Lysandy  Curds,"  said  Judge  Priest  grimly. 

"Well,  for  one  I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Mr. 
Milam.  "If  poor  old  Lysander  hadn't  stayed 
blind  for  about  two  years  after  the  rest  of  this 
[106] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

town  got  its  eyes  wide  open  this  suit  would  have 
been  filed  long  before  now." 

But  Judge  Priest  didn't  hear  him.  He  had 
closed  the  door. 

Mr.  Milam  looked  meaningly  at  Mr.  Bird- 
song.  Mr.  Birdsong  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his 
plug  and  helped  himself  to  a  copious  chew, 
meanwhile  looking  meaningly  back  at  Mr. 
Milam.  With  the  cud  properly  bestowed  in  his 
right  jaw  Mr.  Birdsong  gave  vent  to  what  for 
him  was  a  speech  of  considerable  length: 

""Jedge  said  Bigger  &  Quigley,  didn't  he? 
Well,  they're  a  good  smart  team  of  lawyers,  but 
ef  I  was  in  Lysander  John  Curd's  shoes  I  think 
I'd  intrust  my  interests  in  this  matter  to  a 
different  firm  than  them." 

"Who's  that?"  inquired  Mr.  Milam. 

"It's  a  Yankee  firm  up  North,"  answered  Mr. 
Birdsong,  masticating  slowly.  "One  named 
Smith  and  the  other'n  named  Wesson." 

It  will  be  noted  that  our  worthy  sheriff  fell 
plump  into  the  same  error  over  which  Judge 
Priest's  feet  had  stumbled  a  few  minutes  earlier 
— he  assumed  offhand,  Sheriff  Birdsong  did,  that 
in  this  cause  of  Curd  against  Curd  the  husband 
was  to  play  the  role  of  the  party  aggrieved. 
Indeed,  we  may  feel  safe  in  assuming  that  at 
first  blush  almost  anybody  in  our  town  would 
have  been  guilty  of  that  same  mistake.  The 
real  truth  in  this  regard,  coming  out,  as^it  very 
shortly  did — before  sunset  of  that  day,  in  fact 
— gave  the  community  a  profound  shock.  From 
[  107  1 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


house  to  house,  from  street  to  street  and  from 
civic  ward  to  civic  ward  the  tale  travelled, 
growing  as  it  went.  The  Daily  Evening  News 
carried  merely  the  barest  of  bare  statements, 
coupled  with  the  style  of  the  action  and  the 
names  of  the  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff;  but 
with  spicy  added  details,  pieced  out  from  sur 
mise  and  common  rumour,  the  amazing  tidings 
percolated  across  narrow  roads  and  through  the 
panels  of  partition  fences  with  a  rapidity  which 
went  far  toward  proving  that  the  tongue  is 
mightier  than  the  printed  line,  or  at  least  is 
speedier. 

When  you  see  a  woman  hasten  forth  from  her 
house  with  eyes  that  burn  and  hear  her  hail  her 
neighbour  next  door;  when  you  see  their  two 
heads  meet  above  the  intervening  pickets  and 
observe  that  one  is  doing  the  talking  and  the 
other  is  doing  the  listening,  sucking  her  breath 
in,  gaspingly,  at  frequent  intervals;  and  when 
on  top  of  this  you  take  note  that,  having 
presently  parted  company  with  the  first,  the  sec 
ond  woman  speeds  hot-foot  to  call  her  neighbour 
upon  the  other  side,  all  men  may  know  by  these 
things  alone  that  a  really  delectable  scandal  has 
been  loosed  upon  the  air.  Not  once  but  many 
times  this  scene  was  enacted  in  our  town  that 
night,  between  the  going-down  of  the  sun  and  the 
coming-up  of  the  moon.  Also  that  magnificent 
adjunct  of  modern  civilisation,  the  telephone, 
helped  out  tremendously  in  spreading  the  word. 

Hard  upon  the  heels  of  the  first  jolting. dis- 
[108] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

closure  correlated  incidents  eventuated,  and 
these,  as  the  saying  goes,  supplied  fuel  to  the 
flames.  Just  before  supper-time  old  Mr.  Ly- 
sander  Curd  went  with  dragging  feet  and  down 
cast  head  to  Mrs.  Teenie  Merrill's  boarding 
house,  carrying  in  one  hand  a  rusty  valise,  and 
from  Mrs.  Morrill  he  straightway  engaged  board 
and  lodging  for  an  indefinite  period.  And  hi  the 
early  dusk  of  the  evening  Mrs.  Lysander  Curd 
drove  out  in  the  smart  top-phaeton  that  her 
husband  had  given  her  on  her  most  recent  birth 
day — she  sitting  very  erect  and  handling  the 
ribbons  on  her  little  spirited  bay  mare  very 
prettily,  and  seemingly  all  oblivious  to  the 
hostile  eyes  which  stared  at  her  from  sidewalks 
and  porch  fronts.  About  dark  she  halted  at 
the  corner  of  Clay  and  Contest,  where  a  row  of 
maples,  new  fledged  with  young  leaves,  made  a 
thick  shadow  across  the  road. 

Exactly  there,  as  it  so  chanced,  State  Senator 
Horace  K.  Maydew  happened  to  be  loitering 
about,  enjoying  the  cooling  breezes  of  the  spring 
night,  and  he  lifted  his  somewhat  bulky  but 
athletic  forty-year-old  form  into  the  phaeton 
alongside  of  the  lady.  In  close  conversation 
they  were  seen  to  drive  out  Contest  and  to  turn 
into  the  Towhead  Road;  and — if  we  may  believe 
what  that  willing  witness,  old  Mrs.  Whitridge, 
who  lived  at  the  corner  of  Clay  and  Contest, 
had  to  say  upon  the  subject — it  was  ten  minutes 
of  eleven  o'clock  before  they  got  back  again  to 
that  corner.  Mrs.  Whitridge  knew  the  exact 
[109] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


hour,  because  she  stayed  up  in  her  front  room 
to  watch,  with  one  eye  out  of  the  bay  window 
and  the  other  on  the  mantel  clock.  To  be  sure, 
this  had  happened  probably  a  hundred  times 
before — this  meeting  of  the  pair  in  the  shadows 
of  the  water  maples,  this  riding  in  company 
over  quiet  country  roads  until  all  hours — but  by 
reason  of  the  day's  sensational  developments  it 
now  took  on  an  enhanced  significance.  Mrs. 
Whitridge  could  hardly  wait  until  morning  to 
call  up,  one  by  one,  the  members  of  her  circle 
of  intimate  friends.  I  judge  the  telephone  com 
pany  never  made  much  money  off  of  Mrs. 
Whitridge  even  in  ordinary  times;  she  rented 
her  telephone  by  the  month  and  she  used  it  by 
the  hour. 

As  we  are  following  the  course  of  things  with 
some  regard  for  their  chronological  sequence, 
perhaps  I  should  state  here  that  on  the  next  day 
but  one  the  Lysander  John  Curd  hay  and  feed 
store  was  closed  on  executions  sworn  out  by  a 
coterie  of  panic-stricken  creditors.  It  is  a  mis 
take,  I  think,  to  assume  that  rats  always  leave 
a  sinking  ship.  It  has  been  my  limited  observa 
tion  that,  if  they  are  commercial  rats,  they  stay 
aboard  and  nibble  more  holes  in  the  hull.  How 
ever,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

In  less  than  no  time  at  all  following  this — in 
less  than  two  weeks  thereafter,  to  be  exact — the 
coils  which  united  Mr.  Lysander  Curd  and 
Luella  his  wife  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony  were 
by  due  process  of  the  statutory  law  unloosed 

[no] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

and  slackened  off.  Being  free,  the  ex-husband 
promptly  gathered  together  such  meagre  belong 
ings  as  he  might  call  his  own  and  betook  himself 
to  that  little  mortgage-covered  farm  of  his  out 
Lone  Elm  way.  Being  free  also,  the  ex-wife  with 
equal  celerity  became  the  bride  of  State  Senator 
Horace  K.  Maydew,  with  a  handy  justice  of  the 
peace  to  officiate  at  the  ceremony.  It  was  char 
acteristic  of  State  Senator  Maydew  that  he 
should  move  briskly  in  consummating  this,|the 
paramount  romance  of  his  Me.  For  he  was 
certainly  an  up-and-coming  man. 

There  was  no  holding  him  down,  it  seemed. 
Undoubtedly  he  was  a  rising  light,  and  the  lady 
who  now  bore  his  name  was  bound  and  deter 
mined  that  she  rise  with  him.  She  might  have 
made  one  matrimonial  mistake,  but  this  time 
she  had  hitched  her  wagon  to  a  star — a  star 
which  soared  amain  and  cast  its  radiance  afar. 
Soon  she  was  driving  her  own  car — and  a  seven- 
passenger  car  at  that.  They  sent  to  Chicago  for 
an  architect  to  design  their  new  home  on  Flour- 
noy  Boulevard  and  to  Louisville  for  a  decorator 
to  decorate  it.  It  wasn't  the  largest  house  in 
town,  but  it  was  by  long  odds  the  smartest. 

The  Senator  willed  that  she  should  have  the 
best  of  everything,  and  she  had  it.  For  himself 
he  likewise  desired  much.  His  was  an  uneasy 
ambition,  which  ate  into  him  like  a  canker  and 
gave  him  no  peace.  Indeed,  peace  was  not  of  his 
craving.  He  watered  his  desire  with  the  waters 
of  self-appreciation  and  mulched  it  with  con- 
[111] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


slant  energy,  and  behold  it  grew  like  the  gourd 
and  bourgeoned  like  the  bay.  He  had  been 
mayor;  at  this  time  he  was  state  senator;  pres 
ently  it  was  to  transpire  that  he  would  admire 
to  be  more  than  that. 

Always  his  handclasp  had  been  ardent  and 
clinging.  Now  the  inner  flames  that  burned  its 
owner  made  it  feverish  to  the  touch.  His  smile 
was  as  warming  as  a  grate  fire  and  almost  as 
wide.  Shoulders  were  made  for  him  to  slap,  and 
children  had  been  created  into  the  world  to  the 
end  that  he  might  inquire  regarding  their  gen 
eral  health  and  well  doing.  Wherefore  parents — 
and  particularly  young  parents — were  greatly 
drawn  to  him.  If  there  was  a  lodge  he  joined  it; 
if  there  was  a  church  fair  he  went  to  it;  if  there 
was  an  oration  to  be  made  he  made  it.  His 
figure  broadened  and  took  on  a  genial  dignity. 
Likewise  in  the  accumulation  of  worldly  goods 
he  waxed  amazingly  well.  His  manner  was 
paternal  where  it  was  not  fraternal.  His  eye, 
though,  remained  as  before — a  sharp,  greedy, 
appraising  eye.  There  is  no  alibi  for  a  bad  eye. 
Still,  a  lot  of  people  never  look  as  high  as  the 
eyes.  They  stop  at  the  diamond  in  the  scarf  pin. 

When  a  vacancy  occurred  in  the  district 
chairmanship  it  seemed  quite  in  keeping  with 
the  trend  of  the  political  impulses  of  the  times 
that  Senator  Maydew  should  slip  into  the  hole. 
Always  a  clever  organiser,  he  excelled  his  past 
record  in  building  up  and  strengthening  the 
district  organisation.  It  wasn't  long  before  he 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

had  his  fences  as  they  should  be — hog-tight, 
horst  high  and  bull-strong. 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  manifold  activities  he 
found  time  to  be  an  attentive  and  indulgent 
husband.  If  the  new  Mrs.  May  dew  did  not 
enjoy  the  aloof  society  of  those  whom  we  fondly 
call  down  our  way  The  Old  Families,  at  least 
she  had  her  fine  new  home,  and  her  seven-pas 
senger  car,  and  her  generous  and  loving  hus 
band.  And  she  was  content;  you  could  tell 
that  by  her  air  and  her  expression  at  all  times. 
Some  thought  there  was  just  a  trace  of  defiance 
in  her  bearing. 

It  was  just  about  a  year  after  her  marriage  to 
him  that  the  Senator,  in  response  to  the  de 
mands  of  a  host  of  friends  and  admirers — so  ran 
the  language  of  his  column-long  paid-for  card  in 
the  Daily  Evening  News  and  other  papers — an 
nounced  himself  as  a  candidate  for  the  Demo 
cratic  nomination  for  congressman.  Consider 
ing  conditions  and  everything,  the  occasion 
appeared  to  be  propitious  for  such  action  on  his 
part.  The  incumbent,  old  Major  J.  C.  C.  Guest, 
had  been  congressman  a  long,  long  time — en 
tirely  too  long  a  time,  some  were  beginning  to 
say.  He  had  never  been  a  particularly  exciting 
personage,  even  back  yonder  in  those  remote 
dim  days  of  his  entry  into  public  life.  At  the 
beginning  his  principal  asset  and  his  heaviest 
claim  upon  the  support  of  his  fellow-citizens 
had  been  an  empty  trouser-leg. 

In  eighty-four,  a  cross-roads  wag  had  said  he 

I  US] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


didn't  believe  Major  Guest  ever  lost  that  leg  in 
battle — it  was  his  private  opinion  that  the  Maje 
wore  it  off  running  for  office.  At  the  time  this 
*  quip  was  thought  almost  to  border  upon  the 
sacrilegious,  and  nobody  had  laughed  at  it 
except  the  utterer  thereof.  But  fully  sixteen 
lagging  years  had  dragged  by  since  then;  and  for 
the  old-soldier  element  the  times  were  out  of 
joint.  Maybe  that  was  because  there  weren't  so 
very  many  of  the  old  soldier  element  left.  A 
mouse-coloured  sleeve  without  an  arm  inside  of 
it,  no  longer  had  the  appeal  upon  the  popular 
fancy  that  once  it  had,  and  the  same  was 
true  of  the  one-time  sentimental  and  vote- 
catching  combination  of  a  pair  of  hickory 
crutches  and  an  amputation  at  the  hip  joint. 

Nevertheless,  Major  Guest  was  by  no  means 
ready  to  give  up  and  quit.  With  those  who  con 
sidered  him  ripe  for  retirement  he  disagreed 
violently.  As  between  resting  on  his  laurels  and 
dying  in  the  harness  he  infinitely  preferred  the 
chafe  of  the  leather  to  the  questionable  softness 
of  the  laurel-bed.  So  the  campaign  shaped 
itself  to  be  a  regular  campaign.  Except  for  these 
two — Maydew  and  Guest — there  were  no  openly 
avowed  candidates,  though  Dabney  Prentiss, 
who  dearly  loved  a  flirtation  with  reluctant  Des 
tiny,  was  known  to  have  his  ear  to  the  ground, 
ready  to  qualify  as  the  dark  horse  in  the  event  a 
deadlock  should  develop  and  a  cry  go  forth  for  a 
compromise  nominee.  Possibly  it  was  because 
Dabney  Prentiss  generally  kept  his  ear  to  the 
[114] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

ground  that  he  had  several  times  been  most 
painfully  trampled  upon.  From  head  to  foot  he 
was  one  big  mental  bruise. 

Since  he  held  the  levers  of  the  district  ma 
chinery  in  the  hollows  of  his  two  itching  hands, 
Senator  Maydew  very  naturally  and  very  prop 
erly  elected  to  direct  his  own  canvass.  Judge 
Priest,  quitting  the  bench  temporarily,  came 
forth  to  act  as  manager  for  his  friend,  Major 
Guest.  At  this  there  was  rejoicing  in  the  camp 
of  the  clan  of  Maydew.  To  Maydew  and  his 
lieutenants  it  appeared  that  providence  had 
dealt  the  good  cards  into  their  laps.  Undeniably 
the  judge  was  old  and,  moreover,  he  was 
avowedly  old-fashioned.  It  stood  to  reason  he 
would  conduct  the  affairs  of  his  candidate  along 
old-fashioned  lines.  To  be  sure,  he  had  his 
following;  so  much  was  admitted.  Nobody 
could  beat  Judge  Priest  for  his  own  job;  at  least 
nobody  ever  had.  But  controlling  his  own  job 
and  his  own  county  was  one  thing.  Engineering 
a  district-wide  canvass  in  behalf  of  an  aging  and 
uninspiring  incumbent  was  another.  And  if  over 
the  bent  shoulders  of  Major  Guest  they  might 
strike  a  blow  at  Judge  Priest,  why,  so  much  the 
better  for  Maydew  now,  and  so  much  the  worse 
for  Priest  hereafter.  Thus  to  their  own  satis 
faction  the  Maydew  men  figured  it  out. 

The  campaign  went  forward  briskly  and  not 

without  some  passing  show  of  bitterness.    In  a 

measure,  Judge  Priest  justified  the  predictions 

of  the  other  side  by  employing  certain  time- 

["5] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


hallowed  expedients  for  enlisting  the  votes  of 
his  fellow  Democrats  for  Major  Guest.  He 
appealed,  as  it  were,  to  the  musty  traditions  of  a 
still  mustier  past.  He  sent  the  Major  over  the 
district  to  make  speeches.  He  organised  school- 
house  rallies  and  brush-arbour  ratifications.  He 
himself  was  mighty  in  argument  and  opulent  in 
the  use  of  homely  oratory. 

Very  different  was  the  way  of  State  Senator 
Maydew.  The  speeches  that  he  made  were  few 
as  to  number  and  brief  as  to  their  length,  but 
they  were  not  bad  speeches.  He  was  a  ready 
and  a  frequent  purchaser  of  newspaper  space; 
and  he  shook  hands  and  slapped  shoulders  and 
inquired  after  babies  without  cessation.  But 
most  of  all  he  kept  both  of  his  eyes  and  all  of  his 
ten  nimble  fingers  upon  the  machine,  triggering 
it  and  thimbling  it  and  pulling  at  secret  wires  by 
day  and  by  night.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  tribute  to 
his  talents  in  this  direction  that  the  method  that 
he  inaugurated  was  beginning  to  be  called  May- 
dewism — by  the  opposition,  of  course — before 
the  canvass  was  a  month  old.  In  an  unusually 
vociferous  outburst  of  indignation  at  a  meeting 
in  the  Independent  Order  of  Odd  Fellows'  hall  at 
Settleville,  Major  Guest  referred  to  it  as  "the 
fell  blight  of  Maydewism."  When  a  physician 
discovers  a  new  and  especially  malignant  disease 
his  school  of  practice  compliments  him  by 
naming  the  malady  after  him;  when  a  political 
leader  develops  a  political  system  of  his  own,  his 
opponents,  although  actuated  by  different  mo- 
[116] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

tives,  do  the  same  thing,  which  may  be  taken  as 
an  absolute  sign  that  the  person  in  question  has 
made  some  sincere  enemies  at  least.  But  if 
Maydew  made  enemies  he  made  friends  too;  at 
any  rate  he  made  followers.  As  the  campaign 
drew  near  to  its  crackling  finish  it  was  plain  that 
he  would  carry  most  of  the  towns;  Major  Guest's 
strength  apparently  was  in  the  country — among 
the  farmers  and  the  dwellers  in  small  villages. 

County  conventions  to  name  delegates  to  the 
district  conventions  which,  in  turn,  would  name 
the  congressional  nominee  were  held  simulta 
neously  in  the  nine  counties  composing  the  dis 
trict  at  two  P.  M.  of  the  first  Tuesday  after  the 
-first  Monday  in  August.  A  week  before,  Senator 
Maydew,  having  cannily  provided  that  his  suc 
cessor  should  be  a  man  after  his  own  heart,  re 
signed  as  district  chairman.  Although  he  had 
thrown  overboard  most  of  the  party  precedents, 
it  seemed  to  him  hardly  ethical  that  he  should 
call  to  order  and  conduct  the  preliminary  pro 
ceedings  of  the  body  that  he  counted  upon  to 
nominate  him  as  its  standard  bearer — standard 
bearer  being  the  somewhat  ornamental  phrase 
customarily  used  among  us  on  these  occasions. 
He  was  entirely  confident  of  the  final  outcome. 
The  cheering  reports  of  his  aides  in  the  field 
made  him  feel  quite  sure  that  the  main  conven 
tion  would  take  but  one  ballot.  They  allowed, 
one  and  all,  it  would  be  a  walk-over. 

Howsoever,  these  optimists,  as  it  developed, 
had  reckoned  without  one  factor:  they  had 
["7] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


reckoned  without  a  certain  undercurrent  of  dis 
favour  for  Maydew  which,  though  it  remained  for 
the  most  part  inarticulate  during  the  campaign, 
was  to  manifest  itself  in  the  county  conventions. 
Personalities,  strictly  speaking,  had  not  been 
imported  into  the  fight.  Neither  candidate  had 
seen  fit  to  attack  the  private  life  of  his  opponent, 
but  at  the  last  moment  there  came  to  the  surface 
an  unexpected  and,  in  the  main,  a  silent  antago 
nism  against  the  Senator  which  could  hardly  be 
accounted  for  on  the  ground  of  any  act  of  his 
official  and  public  career. 

So,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  first  Tuesday 
after  the  first  Monday,  when  the  smoke  cleared 
away  and  the  shouting  and  the  tumult  died,  the 
complete  returns  showed  that  of  the  nine  coun 
ties,  totalling  one  hundred  and  twenty  delegate 
votes,  Maydew  had  four  counties  and  fifty-seven 
votes.  Guest  had  carried  four  counties  also, 
with  fifty-one  votes,  while  Bryce  County,  the 
lowermost  county  of  the  district,  had  failed  to 
instruct  its  twelve  delegates  for  either  Maydew 
or  Guest,  which,  to  anybody  who  knew  anything 
at  all  about  politics,  was  proof  positive  that  in 
the  main  convention  Bryce  County  would  hold 
the  balance  of  power.  It  wouldn't  be  a  walk 
over;  that  much  was  certain,  anyhow.  May- 
dew's  jaunty  smile  lost  some  of  its  jauntiness, 
and  anxious  puckers  made  little  seams  at  the 
corners  of  those  greedy  eyes  of  his,  when  the 
news  from  Bryce  County  came.  As  for  Judge 
Priest,  he  displayed  every  outward  sign  of  being 
[H8] 


JUDGE      PRIEST      COMES      BACK 

well  content  as  he  ran  over  the  completed  fig 
ures.  Bryce  was  an  old-fashioned  county, 
mainly  populated  by  a  people  who  clung  to  old- 
fashioned  notions.  Old  soldiers  were  notably 
thick  in  Bryce,  too.  There  was  a  good  chance 
yet  for  his  man.  It  all  depended  on  those 
twelve  votes  of  Bryce  County. 

To  Marshallville,  second  largest  town  in  the 
district,  befell  the  honour  that  year  of  having  the 
district  convention  held  in  its  hospitable  midst; 
and,  as  the  Daily  Evening  News  smartly  phrased 
it,  to  Marshallville  on  a  Thursday  All  Roads 
Ran.  In  accordance  with  the  rote  of  fifty  years 
it  had  been  ordained  that  the  convention  should 
meet  in  the  Marshallville  courthouse,  but  in 
the  week  previous  a  fire  of  mysterious  origin 
destroyed  a  large  segment  of  the  shingled  roof  of 
that  historic  structure.  A  darky  was  on  trial 
for  hog  stealing  upon  the  day  of  the  fire,  and  it 
may  have  been  that  sparks  from  the  fiery  ora 
tory  of  the  prosecuting  attorney,  as  he  pleaded 
with  the  jury  for  a  conviction,  went  upward  and 
lodged  among  the  rafters.  As  to  that  I  am  not 
in  a  position  to  say.  I  only  know  this  explana 
tion  for  the  catastrophe  was  advanced  by  divers 
ribald-minded  individuals  who  attended  the 
trial. 

In  this  emergency  the  local  committee  on 
arrangements  secured  for  the  convention  the 
use  of  the  new  Marshallville  opera  house,  which 
was  the  pride  of  Marshallville — a  compact  but 
ornate  structure  having  on  its  first  floor  no  less 
[119] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


than  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  those  regular 
theatre  chairs  magnificently  upholstered  in  hot 
red  plush,  and  above,  at  the  back,  a  balcony, 
and  to  crown  all,  two  orthodox  stage  boxes  of 
stucco,  liberally  embossed  with  gold  paint, 
which  clung,  like  gilded  mud-daubers'  nests,  at 
either  side  of  the  proscenium  arch,  overhanging 
the  stage  below. 

In  one  of  these  boxes,  as  the  delegates  gath 
ered  that  very  warm  August  afternoon,  a  lady 
sat  in  solitary  state.  To  the  delegates  were 
assigned  the  plush-enveloped  grandeurs  of  the 
main  floor.  The  spectators,  including  a  large 
number  of  the  male  citizens  of  Marshallville 
with  a  sprinkling  of  their  women-folk,  packed 
the  balcony  to  the  stifling  point,  but  this  lady 
had  a  whole  box  to  herself.  She  seemed  fairly 
well  pleased  with  herself  as  she  sat  there.  Cer 
tainly  she  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  a  lack  of 
public  interest  in  her  and  her  costume.  To  begin 
with,  there  was  a  much  beplumed  hat,  indubit 
ably  a  thing  of  great  cost  and  of  augmented  size, 
which  effectively  shaded  and  set  off  her  plump 
face.  No  such  hat  had  been  seen  in  Marshall 
ville  before  that  day. 

The  gown  she  wore  was  likewise  of  a  fashion 
new  to  the  dazzled  gaze  of  her  more  plainly 
habited  sisters  in  the  balcony.  I  believe  in  the 
favoured  land  where  they  originated  they  call 
them  princesse  gowns.  Be  its  name  what  it  may, 
this  garment  ran  in  long,  well-nigh  unwrinkled 
lines  from  the  throat  of  its  wearer  to  her  ankles. 
[120] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

It  was  of  some  clinging  white  stuff,  modelled 
seemingly  with  an  intent  to  expose  rather  than 
to  hide  the  curves  of  the  rounded  figure  which  it 
covered.  It  was  close  at  the  neck,  snug  at  the 
bust,  snugger  still  at  the  hips,  and  from  there 
it  flowed  on  tightly  yet  smoothly  to  where  it 
ended,  above  a  pair  of  high-heeled,  big-buckled 
slippers  of  an  amazing  shininess.  The  uniniti 
ated  might  well  have  marvelled  how  the  lady 
ever  got  in  her  gown  unless  she  had  been  melted 
and  poured  into  it;  but  there  was  no  mystery 
concerning  the  manner  in  which  she  had  fastened 
it,  once  she  was  inside  of  it,  for,  when  she  turned 
away  from  the  audience,  a  wondrously  decora 
tive  finishing  touch  was  to  be  seen:  straight 
down  the  middle  of  her  back  coursed  a 
close  row  of  big,  shiny  black  jet  buttons, 
and  when  she  shifted  her  shoulders  these  but 
tons  undulated  glisteningly  along  the  line  of 
her  spinal  column.  The  effect  was  snaky  but 
striking. 

The  lady,  plainly,  was  not  exactly  displeased 
with  herself.  Even  a  rear  view  of  her  revealed 
this.  There  was  assurance  in  the  poise  of  her 
head;  assuredly  there  was  a  beaming  as  of  confi 
dence  in  her  eyes.  Indeed,  she  had  reasons 
other  than  the  satisfaction  inspired  by  the 
possession  of  a  modish  and  becoming  garb  for 
feeling  happy.  Things  promised  to  go  well  with 
her  and  what  was  hers  that  afternoon.  Perhaps 
I  should  have  stated  sooner  that  the  lady  in 
question  was  Mrs.  Senator  Maydew,  present  to 
[121] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


witness  and  to  glorify  the  triumph  of  her  distin 
guished  husband. 

For  a  fact,  triumph  did  seem  near  at  hand  now 
— nearer  than  it  had  been  any  time  these  past 
forty-eight  hours.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier 
an  exultant  messenger  had  come  from  her 
husband  to  bring  to  her  most  splendid  and 
auspicious  tidings.  Luck  had  swung  his  way, 
and  no  mistake  about  it:  of  the  doubtful  dele 
gates  from  Bryce  County  only  two  had  arrived. 
The  other  ten  had  not  arrived.  Moreover  there 
was  no  apparent  possibility  that  they  would 
arrive  before  the  following  day,  and  by  then,  if 
the  Senator's  new-born  scheme  succeeded,  it 
would  be  all  over  but  the  shouting.  A  Heaven 
sent  freshet  in  Little  River  was  the  cause.  Sit 
ting  there  now  in  her  stage  box,  Mrs.  Senator 
Maydew  silently  blessed  the  name  of  Little 
River. 

Ordinarily  Little  River  is  a  stream  not  calcu 
lated  to  attract  the  attention  of  historians  or 
geographers — a  torpid,  saffron-coloured  thread 
of  water  meandering  between  flat  yellow  banks, 
and  owing  its  chief  distinction  to  the  fact  that  it 
cuts  off  three-quarters  of  Bryce  County  from 
the  remaining  quarter  and  from  the  adjoining 
counties  on  the  north.  But  it  has  its  moods  and 
its  passions.  It  is  temperamental,  that  river. 
Suddenly  and  enormously  swollen  by  torrential 
summer  rains  in  the  hills  where  it  has  its  rise, 
it  went,  the  night  before,  on  a  rampage,  over- 
flooding  its  banks,  washing  away  fences  and 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

doing  all  manner  of  minor  damage  in  the  low 
grounds. 

At  dawn  the  big  bridge  which  spanned  the 
river  at  the  gravel  road  had  gone  out,  and  at 
breakfast  time  Ferris'  Ford,  a  safe  enough  cross 
ing  place  in  times  of  low  water,  was  fifteen  feet 
deep  under  a  hissing  brown  flood.  Two  of 
Bryce  County's  delegates,  who  chanced  to  live 
in  the  upper  corner  of  the  county,  had  driven 
through  hub-deep  mud  to  the  junction  and 
there  caught  the  train  for  Marshall ville;  but 
their  ten  compatriots  were  even  now  somewhere 
on  the  far  bank,  cut  off  absolutely  from  all  pros 
pect  of  attending  the  convention  until  the 
roiled  and  angry  waters  should  subside. 

Senator  Maydew,  always  fertile  in  expedient, 
meant  to  ride  to  victory,  as  it  were,  on  the 
providential  high  tide  in  Little  River.  Imme 
diately  on  hearing  what  had  happened,  he 
divined  how  the  mishap  of  the  washed-out 
bridge  and  the  flooded  ford  might  be  made  to 
serve  his  ends  and  better  his  fortunes.  He  was 
keeping  the  plan  secret  for  the  moment;  for  it 
was  a  very  precious  plan.  And  this,  in  effect, 
was  the  word  that  his  emissary  brought  to  his 
wife  just  before  the  convention  met.  He  could 
not  bring  it  himself;  custom  forbade  that  a 
candidate  show  himself  upon  the  floor  in  the 
early  stages,  but  she  was  told  to  wait  and  watch 
for  what  would  presently  ensue,  and  meanwhile 
be  of  good  cheer.  Which,  verily,  she  was. 

She  did  not  have  so  very  long  to  wait.  The 
[123] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


convention  assembled  on  the  hour — a  block  of 
ten  vacant  seats  in  the  second  aisle  showing 
where  the  missing  ten  of  Bryce  should  have  been 
— and  was  called  to  order  by  the  new  district 
chairman.  Up  rose  Judge  Priest  from  his  place 
in  the  middle  of  the  house,  flanking  the  centre 
aisle,  and  addressed  the  chair.  He  had  just 
learned,  he  stated,  that  a  considerable  quota  of 
the  number  of  duly  chosen  delegates  had  not  yet 
reached  Marshallville.  It  appeared  that  the 
elements  were  in  conspiracy  against  the  extreme 
lower  end  of  the  district.  In  justice  to  the  sov 
ereign  voters  of  the  sovereign  County  of  Bryce 
he  moved  that  a  recess  of  twenty-four  hours  be 
taken.  The  situation  which  had  arisen  was 
unforeseen  and  extraordinary,  and  time  should 
be  granted  for  considering  it  in  all  its  aspects. 
And  so  on  and  so  forth  for  five  minutes  or  more, 
in  Judge  Priest's  best  ungrammatical  style. 
The  chairman,  who,  as  will  be  recalled,  was 
Maydew's  man,  ruled  the  motion  out  of 
order. 

I  shall  pass  over  as  briefly  as  possible  the  pro 
ceedings  of  the  next  half  hour.  To  go  fully  into 
those  details  would  be  to  burden  this  narrative 
with  technicalities  and  tiresomeness.  For  our 
purposes  it  is  sufficient,  I  think,  to  say  that  the 
Maydew  machine,  operating  after  the  fashion 
of  a  well-lubricated,  well-steered  and  high-pow 
ered  steam  roller,  ran  over  all  obstacles  with 
the  utmost  despatch.  These  painful  crunching 
operations  began  early  and  continued  briskly. 
[124] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

On  the  first  roll  call  of  the  counties,  as  the 
County  of  Bryce — second  on  our  list  after 
Bland — was  reached,  one  of  those  two  lone  dele 
gates  from  the  upper  side  of  Little  River  stood 
up  and,  holding  aloft  his  own  credentials  and  the 
credentials  of  his  team-mate,  demanded  the 
right  to  cast  the  votes  of  the  whole  Bryce  County 
delegation — twelve  in  all. 

The  district  chairman,  acting  with  a  prompt 
ness  that  bespoke  priming  beforehand  for  just 
such  a  contingency,  held  that  the  matter  should 
be  referred  to  the  committee  on  credentials. 
As  floor  leader  and  spokesman  for  the  Guest 
faction,  old  Judge  Priest  appealed  from  the 
ruling  of  the  chair.  A  vote  was  taken.  The 
chairman  was  sustained  by  fifty-seven  to  fifty- 
one,  the  two  indignant  delegates  from  Bryce  not 
being  permitted,  under  a  ruling  from  the  chair, 
to  cast  any  votes  whatsoever,  seeing  as  their 
own  status  in  the  convention  was  the  question 
at  issue.  Disorder  ensued;  in  the  absence  of  a 
sergeant-at-arms  the  services  of  volunteer  peace 
makers  were  required  to  separate  a  Maydew 
delegate  from  Bland  County  and  a  Guest  dele 
gate  from  Mims  County. 

Dripping  with  perspiration,  his  broad  old  face 
one  big  pinky-red  flare,  his  nasal  whine  rising  to 
heights  of  incredible  whininess  under  the  stress 
of  his  earnestness,  the  judge  led  the  fight  for  the 
minority.  The  steam  roller  went  out  of  its  way 
to  flatten  him.  Not  once,  but  twice  and  thrice  it 
jounced  over  him,  each  time  leaving  him  figur- 
[125] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


atively  squashed  but  entirely  undismayed.  He 
was  fighting  a  losing  but  a  valiant  fight  for 
time. 

A  committee  on  resolutions  was  named  and 
went  forth  to  an  ante-room  to  draw  up  a  plat 
form.  Nobody  cared  much  about  that.  A  set 
of  resolutions  pointing  with  pride  to  everything 
that  was  Democratic  and  viewing  with  alarm 
everything  even  remotely  Republican  in  aspect 
would  be  presently  forthcoming,  as  was  custom 
ary.  It  was  the  committee  on  credentials  upon 
which  everything  depended.  Being  chosen,  it 
likewise  retired,  returning  in  a  miraculously 
short  space  of  time  with  its  completed  report. 

And  this  in  brief  was  what  the  majority  of  the 
committee  on  credentials — all  reliable  Maydew 
men — had  to  report: 

There  being  no  contests,  it  was  recommended 
that  the  sitting  delegates  from  the  eight  counties 
fully  represented  upon  the  floor  be  recognised  as 
properly  accredited  delegates.  But  in  respect  to 
the  ninth  county,  namely  Bryce,  an  unprece 
dented  situation  had  arisen.  Two  of  Bryce's 
delegates  were  present,  bearing  credentials 
properly  attested  by  their  county  chairman;  un 
fortunately  ten  others  were  absent,  through  no 
fault  of  their  own  or  of  the  convention.  As  a 
majority  of  the  credentials  committee  viewed 
the  matter,  it  would  be  a  manifest  injustice  to 
deprive  these  two  delegates  of  their  right  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  deliberations;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  committee  held  it  to  be  equally  unfair 
*  [ 126  ] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

that  those  two  should  be  permitted  to  cast  the 
ballots  of  their  ten  associates,  inasmuch  as  they 
could  have  no  way  of  knowing  what  the  personal 
preferences  of  the  absentees  might  be.  How 
ever,  to  meet  the  peculiar  condition  the  com 
mittee  now  made  the  following  recommendation, 
to  wit  as  follows :  That  the  secretary  of  the  con 
vention  be  instructed  to  prepare  an  alphabetical 
list  of  such  delegates  as  were  present  in  person, 
and  that  only  such  delegates  as  answered  to 
their  own  names  upon  roll  call — and  no  others 
whatsoever — be  permitted  to  vote  upon  any 
question  or  questions  subsequently  arising  in 
this  convention.  Respectfully  submitted. 

For  a  period  of  time  to  be  measured  by  split 
seconds  there  was  silence.  Then  a  whirlwind 
of  sound  whipped  round  and  round  that  packed 
little  martin-box  of  an  opera  house  and,  spiraling 
upward,  threatened  the  integrity  of  its  tin  roof. 
Senator  Maydew  had  delivered  his  king-stroke, 
and  the  purport  of  it  stood  clearly  betrayed  to 
the  understanding  of  all.  With  Bryce's  voting 
strength  reduced  from  twelve  votes  to  two,  and 
with  all  possibility  of  voting  by  proxy  removed, 
the  senator  was  bound  to  win  the  nomination  on 
the  first  ballot.  The  Maydew  men  foresaw  the 
inevitable  result,  once  the  recommendation  of  the 
committee  had  prevailed  and  they  reared  up 
in  their  places  and  threw  their  hats  aloft  and 
yelled.  The  Guest  forces  saw  it,  and  they 
howled  their  disapprobation  until  they  were 
hoarse. 

[127] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


The  tumult  stilled  down  to  a  ground  breeze  of 
mutterings  as  Judge  Priest  got  upon  his  feet. 
To  him  in  this  dire  emergency  the  Guest  forces, 
now  neck-deep  in  the  last  ditch,  looked  hopefully 
for  a  counterfire  that  might  yet  save  them  from 
the  defeat  looming  so  imminent.  There  and 
then,  for  once  in  his  life  the  judge  failed  to  justify 
the  hopes  and  the  faith  of  his  followers.  He 
seemed  strangely  unable  to  find  language  in 
which  effectively  to  combat  the  proposition 
before  the  house.  He  floundered  about,  making 
no  headway,  pushing  no  points  home.  He  prac 
tically  admitted  he  knew  of  nothing  in  party 
usage  or  in  parliamentary  law  that  might  serve 
as  a  bar  to  the  adoption  of  the  proposed  rule. 
He  proposed  to  vote  against  it,  he  said,  but  in 
the  event  that  it  be  adopted  he  now  moved  that 
immediately  thereafter  the  convention  take  an 
adjournment,  thus  giving  the  secretary  time 
and  opportunity  in  which  to  prepare  the  alpha 
betical  list.  With  that  he  broke  off  suddenly 
and  quit  and  sat  down;  and  then  the  heart  went 
out  of  the  collective  body  of  the  Guest  adherents 
and  they  quit,  too,  waiting  in  sullen,  bewildered, 
disappointed  silence  for  the  inevitable. 

After  this  it  was  felt  that  any  further  opposi 
tion  to  the  Maydew  programme  would  be  but 
perfunctory  opposition.  The  majority  report 
of  the  committee  on  credentials  was  adopted  by 
fifty-seven  to  fifty-three,  the  two  Bryce  dele 
gates  voting  in  the  negative,  as  was  to  be 
expected.  Even  so,  Maydew  had  a  lead  of  four 
[128] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

votes,  which  was  not  very  many — but  enough. 
To  the  accompaniment  of  a  few  scattering  and 
spiritless  Nays  the  convention  took  a  recess  of 
one  hour.  This  meant  a  mighty  busy  hour  for 
the  secretary,  but  Maydew,  from  his  temporary 
abiding  place  in  the  wings,  sent  orders  to  his 
floor  managers  to  permit  no  more  than  an  hour's 
delay  at  most.  He  was  famishing  for  the  taste 
of  his  accomplished  triumph.  Besides,  there 
was  no  trusting  so  mercurial  a  stream  as  Little 
River.  It  might  go  down  with  the  same  rapid 
ity  that  had  marked  its  coming  up.  So  an 
hour  it  was. 

The  delegates  flowed  out  of  the  Marshallville 
opera  house  into  the  public  square  of  Marshall 
ville,  and  half  of  them,  or  a  little  more  than  half, 
were  openly  jubilant;  and  half  of  them,  or  a  little 
less  than  half,  were  downcast,  wearing  the  look 
upon  their  faces  of  men  who  were  licked  and  who 
knew  it,  good  and  well.  Moving  along  through 
the  crowded  aisle,  a  despondent  delegate  from 
Minis,  a  distant  kinsman  of  Major  Guest,  found 
himself  touching  shoulders  with  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby,  who  was  a  delegate  from  our  own  county. 

The  Mims  County  man,  with  a  contemptuous 
flirt  of  his  thumb,  indicated  the  broad  back  of 
Judge  Priest  as  the  judge  ambled  deliberately 
along  toward  the  door. 

"I  knowed  it,"  he  said  in  the  tones  of  bitter 

recapitulation;  "I  knowed  it  frum  the  start  and 

I  told  'em  so;  but  no,  they  wouldn't  listen  to 

me.     I  knowed  old  Priest  yonder  was  too  old 

[129] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


to  be  tryin'  to  run  a  campaign  ag'inst  a  smart 
feller  like  Maydew,  dern  his  slick  hide!  When 
the  real  test  come,  whut  did  your  Jedge  Priest 
do?  Why,  he  jest  natchelly  curled  up  and  laid 
flat  down — that's  whut  he  done.  I  reckin 
they'll  listen  to  me  next  time." 

For  once  in  his  life,  and  once  only,  Sergeant 
Jimmy  Bagby  teetered  just  the  least  bit  in  his 
unquestioning  allegiance  to  his  life-long  friend. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head;  "I  don't  know.  You  might  be  right  in 
what  you  say,  and  then  ag'in  you  might  be 
wrong.  It  shore  did  look  like  he  slipped  a  little, 
awhile  ago,  but  you  can't  jest  always  tell  whut's 
on  Jedge  Priest's  mind,"  he  added,  pluckily 
renewing  his  loyalty. 

The  Minis  County  man  grunted  his  disgust. 

"Don't  be  foolin'  yourself,"  he  stated  mo 
rosely.  "You  take  it  frum  me — when  old  men 
start  goin'  they  don't  never  come  back.  And 
your  old  Jedge  is  plumb  gone.  A  baby  could 
'a'  seen  that  frum  the  way  he  acted  jest  now." 

The  object  of  this  criticism  ploughed  his  slow 
way  outdoors,  all  the  while  shaking  his  head  with 
the  air  of  one  who  has  abandoned  hope.  In  the 
street  he  gently  but  firmly  disengaged  himself 
from  those  who  would  have  speech  with  him, 
and  with  obvious  gloom  in  his  manner  made  a 
way  across  the  square  to  the  Mansard  House, 
where  he  and  Major  Guest  had  adjoining  rooms 
on  the  second  floor.  His  gait  briskened,  though, 
as  soon  as  he  had  passed  through  the  lobby  of 
[130] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

the  Mansard  House  and  was  hidden  from  the 
eyes  of  friend  and  enemy  alike. 

From  the  privacy  of  his  room  he  sent  out  for 
certain  men.  With  Cap'n  Buck  Owings,  a 
small,  greyish,  resolute  gentleman,  and  with 
Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong,  a  large,  reddish,  equally 
resolute  gentleman,  he  was  closeted  perhaps  ten 
minutes.  They  went  away  saying  nothing  to 
any  one,  for  the  gift  of  silence  was  an  attribute 
that  these  two  shared  in  common.  Then  the 
judge  had  brief  audience  with  Major  Guest, 
who  emerged  from  the  conference  a  crushed  and 
diminished  figure.  Finally  he  asked  to  speak 
with  Sergeant  Bagby.  The  sergeant  found  him 
sitting  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  feet  on  a 
window  ledge,  looking  out  into  the  square  and 
gently  agitating  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

"Jimmy,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  run  an 
errand  fur  me.  Will  you  go  find  Dabney  Pren- 
tiss — I  seen  him  down  there  on  the  street  a 
minute  ago — and  tell  him  I  say  to  git  a  speech 
ready?" 

"Whut  kind  of  a  speech?"  inquired  Sergeant 
Bagby. 

"Jimmy  Bagby,"  reproved  Judge  Priest, 
"ain't  you  knowed  Dab  Prentiss  long  enough  to 
know  that  you  don't  have  to  tell  him  whut  kind 
of  a  speech  he's  to  make?  He's  got  all  kinds  of 
speeches  in  stock  at  all  times.  I'll  confide  this 
much  to  you  though — it'll  be  the  kind  of  a 
speech  that  he  would  'specially  prefer  to  make. 
Jest  tell  him  I  say  be  ready  to  speak  out  and 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


utter  a  few  burnin'  words  when  the  proper  time 
comes,  ef  it  does  come,  which  I  certainly  hope 
and  trust  it  may." 

Not  greatly  informed  in  his  mind  by  this 
somewhat  cryptic  explanation,  the  Sergeant 
withdrew,  and  Judge  Priest,  getting  up  on  his 
feet,  actually  began  humming  a  little  wordless, 
tuneless  tune  which  was  a  favourite  of  his. 
However,  a  thought  of  the  melancholy  interview 
that  he  had  just  had  with  Major  Guest  must 
have  recurred  to  him  almost  immediately,  for 
when  he  appeared  in  the  open  a  bit  later  on  his 
return  to  the  opera  house  his  head  was  bent 
and  his  form  was  shrunken  and  his  gait  was 
slow.  He  seemed  a  man  weighed  down  with 
vain  repinings  and  vainer  regrets. 

It  would  appear  that  the  secretary  in  the 
interim  had  completed  his  appointed  task,  for 
no  sooner  had  the  convention  reassembled  than 
the  chairman  mounted  to  the  stage  and  took 
his  place  alongside  a  small  table  behind  the 
footlights  and  announced  that  nominations 
would  now  be  in  order;  which  statement  was  a 
cue  for  Attorney-at-Law  Augustus  Tate,  of  the 
County  of  Emmett,  to  get  gracefully  upon  his 
feet  and  toss  back  his  imposing  sable  mane  and 
address  the  assemblage. 

Attorney  Tate  was  an  orator  of  parts,  as  he 
now  proceeded  to  prove  beyond  the  slightest 
peradventure  of  a  doubt.  He  was  known  as  the 
Black  Eagle  of  Emmett,  for  it  had  been  said  of 
him  that  he  had  an  eye  like  that  noble  bird,  the 
[  132] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

eagle.  He  had  a  chin  like  one,  too;  but  that,  of 
course,  had  no  bearing  upon  his  talents  as  dis 
played  upon  the  stump,  on  the  platform  and  in 
the  forum,  and  in  truth  only  a  few  malicious 
detractors  had  ever  felt  called  upon  to  direct 
attention  to  the  fact.  In  flowing  and  sonorous 
periods  he  placed  in  nomination  the  name  of  the 
Honourable  Horace  K.  Maydew,  concluding  in  a 
burst  of  verbal  pin  wheels  and  metaphorical 
skyrockets,  whereat  there  was  a  great  display  of 
enthusiasm  from  floor  and  balcony. 

When  quiet  had  been  restored  Judge  Priest  got 
slowly  up  from  where  he  sat  and  took  an  action 
which  was  not  entirely  unexpected,  inasmuch  as 
rumours  of  it  had  been  in  active  circulation  for 
half  an  hour  or  more.  In  twenty  words  he  with 
drew  the  name  of  the  Honourable  J.  C.  C.  Guest 
as  a  candidate  before  the  convention. 

Only  a  rustle  of  bodies  succeeded  this  an 
nouncement — that  and  an  exhalation  of  breath 
from  a  few  delegations,  which  attained  to  the 
volume  of  a  deep  joint  sigh. 

The  chairman  glanced  over  the  house  with  a 
brightening  eye.  It  was  almost  time  to  begin 
the  jubilation.  As  a  matter  of  fact  several 
ardent  souls  among  the  Maydewites  could 
hardly  hold  themselves  in  until  the  few  remain 
ing  formalities  had  been  complied  with.  They 
poised  themselves  upon  the  edges  of  their  chairs, 
with  throats  tuned  to  lead  in  the  yelling. 

"Are  there  any  other  nominations?"  asked 
the  chairman,  turning  this  way  and  that.  He 
[133] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


asked  it  as  a  matter  of  form  merely.  "If  not, 
the  nominations  will  be  closed  and  the  secretary 
will- 

"  Mister  Cheerman,  one  minute,  ef  you  please." 

The  interrupting  voice  was  the  high-piped 
voice  of  Judge  Priest,  and  the  chairman  straight 
ened  on  his  heels  to  find  Judge  Priest  still  upon 
his  feet. 

"The  chair  recognises  Judge  Priest  again," 
said  the  chairman  blandly.  He  assumed  the 
judge  meant  to  accept  his  beating  gracefully 
and,  in  the  interest  of  party  harmony,  to  move 
the  nomination  of  May  dew  by  acclamation.  On 
his  part  that  would  have  been  a  fair  enough  pre 
sumption,  but  the  first  utterances  that  came  now 
from  the  old  judge  jerked  open  the  eyes  and 
gaped  the  mouth  of  the  presiding  officer.  How 
ever,  he  was  not  alone  there;  nearly  everybody 
was  stunned. 

"It  was  my  painful  duty  a  minute  ago  to 
withdraw  the  candidate  that  I  had  been  privi 
leged  to  f oiler  in  this  campaign,"  said  Judge 
Priest  in  his  weedy  notes.  "It  is  now  my  plea 
sure  to  offer  in  his  stead  the  name  of  another 
man  as  a  suitable  and  a  fittin'  representative  of 
this  district  in  the  National  Halls  of  Congress." 
He  glanced  about  him  as  though  enjoying  the 
surprised  hush  that  had  fallen  upon  the  place, 
and  for  just  a  fraction  of  a  second  his  eyes 
focused  upon  the  lone  occupant  of  the  right-hand 
stage  box,  almost  above  his  head.  Then  he 
went  on,  deliberately  prolonging  his  syllables: 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

"The  man  whom  I  would  nominate  has  never 
so  fur  as  I  know  been  active  in  politics.  So  fur 
as  I  know  he  has  never  aspired  to  or  sought  fur 
public  office  at  the  hands  of  his  feller-citizens ;  in 
fact,  he  does  not  now  seek  this  office.  In  pre- 
sentin'  his  name  for  your  consideration  I  am 
doin'  so  solely  upon  my  own  responsibility  and 
without  consultin'  any  one  on  this  earth. 

"My  present  candidate  is  not  an  orator.  He 
is  not  a  mixer  or  an  organiser.  I  am  constrained 
to  admit  that,  measured  by  the  standards  of 
commerce,  he  is  not  even  a  successful  man.  He 
is  poor  in  this  world's  goods.  He  is  leadin'  at 
this  moment  a  life  of  retirement  upon  a  little 
barren  hillside  farm,  where  the  gulleys  furrow  his 
tobacco  patch  and  the  sassafras  sprouts  are 
takin'  his  cornfield,  and  the  shadder  of  a  mort 
gage  rests  heavy  upon  his  lonely  roof  tree. 

"But  he  is  an  honest  man  and  a  God-fearin' 
man.  Ez  a  soldier  under  the  stars  and  bars  he 
done  his  duty  to  the  sorrowful  end.  Ez  a  citizen 
he  has  never  wilfully  harmed  his  feller-man. 
He  never  invaded  the  sanctity  of  any  man's 
home,  and  he  never  brought  sorrow  to  any 
hearthstone.  Ef  he  has  his  faults — and  who 
amongst  us  is  without  them? — he  has  been  the 
sole  sufferer  by  them.  I  believe  it  has  been 
charged  that  he  drank  some,  but  I  never  seen 
him  under  the  influence  of  licker,  and  I  don't 
believe  anybody  else  ever  did  either. 

"I  nominate—  His  voice  took  on  the 

shrillness  of  a  fife  and  his  right  fist,  pudgy  and 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


clenched,  came  up  at  arm's  length  above  his 
head — "I  nominate — and  on  that  nomination, 
in  accordance  with  a  rule  but  newly  framed  by 
this  body,  I  call  here  and  now  fur  an  alphabetical 
roll  call  of  each  and  every  delegate — I  offer  as  a 
candidate  fur  Congress  ag'inst  the  Honourable 
Horace  K.  Maydew  the  name  of  my  friend,  my 
neighbour  and  my  former  comrade,  Lysandy 
John  Curd,  of  the  voting  precinct  of  Lone  Ellum 
and  the  County  of  Red  Gravel." 

There  was  no  applause.  Not  a  ripple  of 
approbation  went  up,  nor  a  ripple  of  hostility 
either.  But  a  gasp  went  up — a  mighty  gasp, 
deep  and  sincere  and  tremendously  significant. 

Of  those  upon  the  stage  it  was  the  chairman, 
I  think,  who  got  his  wits  back  first.  He  was 
naturally  quick-witted,  else  his  sponsor  would 
never  have  chosen  him  for  chairman.  In  a  mute 
plea  for  guidance  he  turned  his  head  toward  the 
wing  of  the  stage  where  he  knew  that  sponsor 
should  be,  and  abruptly,  at  a  distance  from  him 
to  be  measured  by  inches  rather  than  by  feet, 
his  gaze  encountered  the  hypnotising  stare  of 
Cap'n  Buck  Owings,  who  had  magically  mate 
rialised  from  nowhere  in  particular  and  was  now 
at  his  elbow. 

"Stay  right  where  you  are,"  counselled  Cap'n 
Buck  in  a  half  whisper.  "We've  had  plenty  of 
these  here  recesses — these  proceedin's  are  goin' 
right  on." 

Daunted  and  bewildered,  the  chairman  hesi- 
tated,  his  gavel  trembling  in  his  temporarily 

[136] 


JUDGE     PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

palsied  hand.  In  that  same  moment  Sheriff 
Giles  Birdsong  had  got  upon  the  stage,  too;  only 
he  deemed  his  proper  place  to  be  directly  along 
side  the  desk  of  the  secretary,  and  into  the 
startled  ear  of  the  secretary  he  now  spoke. 

"Start  your  roll  call,  buddy,"  was  what  Mr. 
Birdsong  said,  saying  it  softly,  in  lullaby  tones, 
yet  imparting  a  profound  meaning  to  his  croon 
ing  and  gentle  accents.  "And  be  shore  to  call 
off  the  names  in  alphabetical  order — don't  fur- 
git  that  part!" 

Inward  voices  of  prudence  dictated  the  value 
of  prompt  obedience  in  the  brain  of  that  secre 
tary.  Quaveringly  he  called  the  first  name  on 
the  list  of  the  first  county,  and  the  county  was 
Bland  and  the  name  was  Homer  H.  Agnew. 

Down  in  the  Bland  County  delegation,  seated 
directly  in  front  of  the  stage,  an  old  man  stood 
up — the  Rev.  Homer  H.  Agnew,  an  itinerant 
Baptist  preacher. 

"My  county  convention,"  he  explained,  "in 
structed  us  for  Maydew.  But  under  the  law  of 
this  convention  I  vote  now  as  an  individual. 
As  between  the  two  candidates  presented  I  can 
vote  only  one  way.  I  vote  for  Curd." 

Having  voted,  he  remained  standing.  There 
were  no  cheers  and  no  hisses.  Everybody 
waited.  In  a  silence  so  heavy  that  it  hurt,  they 
waited.  And  the  secretary  was  constrained  to 
call  the  second  name  on  the  Bland  County  list: 
" Patrick  J.  Burke!" 

Now  Patrick  J.  Burke,  as  one  might  guess 
[137] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


from  his  name,  belonged  to  a  race  that  has  been 
called  sentimental  and  emotional.  Likewise  he 
was  a  communicant  of  a  faith  which  long  ago  set 
its  face  like  a  flint  against  the  practice  of  divorce. 

"I  vote  for  Curd,"  said  Patrick  J.  Burke, 
and  likewise  he  stood  up,  a  belligerent,  defiant, 
stumpy,  red-haired  man. 

"Ruf us  Burnett!" 

This  was  the  first  convention  Rufus  Burnett 
had  ever  attended  in  an  official  capacity.  In 
order  that  she  might  see  how  well  he  acquitted 
himself,  he  had  brought  his  wife  with  him  and 
put  her  in  the  balcony.  We  may  figure  Mrs. 
Burnett  as  a  strong-minded  lady,  for  before  he 
answered  to  his  name  Mr.  Burnett,  as  though 
seeking  higher  guidance,  cocked  a  pestered  eye 
aloft  to  where  the  lady  sat,  and  she,  saying 
nothing,  merely  pointed  a  finger  toward  the  spot 
where  old  Judge  Priest  was  stationed.  Rufus 
knew. 

"Curd,"  he  said  clearly  and  distinctly.  Some 
body  yelled  then,  and  other  voices  took  up  the 

yell. 

There  were  eleven  names  on  the  Bland  County 
list.  The  secretary  had  reached  the  eighth  and 
had  heard  eight  voices  speak  the  same  word, 
when  an  interruption  occurred — perhaps  I 
should  say  two  interruptions  occurred. 

The  Black  Eagle  of  Emmett  darted  out  from 

the  wings,  bounded  over  the  footlights  and  split 

a  path  for  himself  to  the  seat  of  Judge  Priest. 

For  once  he  forgot  to  be  oratorical.    "We'll  quit, 

[138] 


JUDGE      PRIEST     COMES     BACK 

Judge,"  he  panted,  "we're  ready  to  quit.  May- 
dew  will  withdraw — I've  just  come  from  him. 
He  can't  stand  for  this  to  go  on;  he'll  withdraw  if 
you'll  take  Curd's  name  down  too.  Any  com 
promise  candidate  will  do.  Only,  for  heaven's 
sake,  withdraw  Curd  before  this  goes  any  far 
ther!" 

"All  right,  son,"  said  Judge  Priest,  raising  his 
voice  to  be  heard,  for  by  now  the  secretary  had 
called  the  ninth  name  and  the  cheering  was 
increasing  in  volume;  "that  suits  me  first  rate. 
But  you  withdraw  your  man  first,  and  then  I'll 
tell  you  who  the  nominee  of  this  here  convention 
is  goin'  to  be." 

Turning,  he  put  a  hand  upon  Sergeant 
Bagby's  arm  and  shook  him  until  the  sergeant 
broke  a  whoop  in  two  and  hearkened. 

"Jimmy,"  said  Judge  Priest  with  a  little 
chuckle,  "step  down  the  aisle,  will  you,  and  tell 
Dabney  Prentiss  to  uncork  himse'f  and  git 
his  speech  of  acceptance  all  ready.  He  don't 
know  it  yit,  but  he's  goin'  to  move  up  to  Wash 
ington,  D.  C.,  after  the  next  general  election." 

Just  as  the  sergeant  started  on  his  mission  the 
other  interruption  occurred.  A  lady  fainted. 
She  was  conspicuously  established  in  the  stage 
box  on  the  right-hand  side,  and  under  the  circum 
stances  and  with  so  many  harshly  appraisive 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  there  was  really  nothing  else 
for  her  to  do,  as  a  lady,  except  faint.  She  slipped 
out  of  her  chair  and  fell  backward  upon  the 
floor.  It  must  have  been  a  genuine  faint,  for 
[  139  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


certainly  no  person  who  was  even  partly  con 
scious,  let  alone  a  tenderly  nurtured  lady,  could 
have  endured  to  lie  flat  upon  the  hard  planks, 
as  this  lady  did,  with  all  those  big,  knobby  jet 
buttons  grinding  right  into  her  spine. 

Although  I  may  have  wandered  far  from  the 
main  path  and  taken  the  patient  reader  into 
devious  byways,  I  feel  I  have  accomplished  what 
I  set  out  to  do  in  the  beginning :  I  have  explained 
how  Dabney  Prentiss  came  to  be  our  representa 
tive  in  the  Lower  House  of  the  National  Con 
gress.  The  task  is  done,  yet  I  feel  that  I  should 
not  conclude  the  chapter  until  I  have  repeated  a 
short  passage  of  words  between  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby  and  that  delegate  from  Mims  County 
who  was  a  distant  kinsman  of  Major  Guest.  It 
happened  just  after  the  convention,  having  fin 
ished  its  work,  had  adjourned,  and  while  the 
delegates  and  the  spectators  were  emerging  from 
the  Marshallville  opera  house. 

All  jubilant  and  excited  now,  the  Mims 
County  man  came  charging  up  and  slapped 
Sergeant  Bagby  upon  the  shoulder. 

"Well,  suh,"  he  clarioned,  "the  old  Jedge  did 
come  back,  didn't  he?" 

"Buddy,"  said  Sergeant  Bagby,  "you  was 
wrong  before  and  you're  wrong  ag'in.  He  didn't 
have  to  come  back,  because  he  ain't  never  been 
gone  nowheres." 


[140] 


TV 

A  CHAPTER  FROM  THE  LIFE 

OF   AN   ANT 


SOMEONE    said    once— the  rest    of    us 
subsequently  repeating  it  on  occasion — 
that  this  world  is  but  an  ant  hill,  popu 
lated  by  many  millions  of  ants,  which 
run  about  aimlessly  or  aimfully  as  the  case  may 
be.     All  of  which  is  true  enough.     Seek  you 
out  some  lofty  eminence,  such  as  the  top  floor 
of  a  skyscraper  or  the  top  of  a  hill,  and  from  it, 
looking  down,  consider  a  crowded  city  street  at 
noon  time  or  a  county  fairground  on  the  day 
of  the  grand  balloon  ascension.     Inevitably  the 
simile  will  recur  to  the  contemplative  mind. 

The  trouble,  though,  with  the  original  coiner 
of  the  comparison  was  that  he  did  not  go  far 
enough.  He  should  have  said  the  world  was 
populated  by  ants — and  by  anteaters.  For  so 
surely  as  we  find  ants,  there,  too,  do  we  find  the 
anteaters.  You  behold  the  ants  bustling  about, 
making  themselves  leaner  trying  to  make  them- 
selves  fatter;  terrifically  busied  with  their  small 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


affairs;  hiving  up  sustenance  against  the  hard 
winter;  gnawing,  digging  and  delving;  climb 
ing,  crawling,  building  and  breeding — in  short, 
deporting  themselves  with  that  energy,  that 
restless  industry  which  so  stirred  the  admira 
tion  of  the  Prophet  of  old  that,  on  his  heaven 
ward  pilgrimage,  he  tarried  long  enough  to 
tell  the  sluggard — name  of  the  sluggard  not 
given  in  the  chronicles — to  go  to  the  ant  and 
consider  of  her. 

The  anteater  for  the  moment  may  not  actually 
be  in  sight,  but  be  assured  he  is  waiting.  He  is 
waiting  around  the  corner  until  the  ant  has 
propagated  in  numbers  amounting  to  an  excess; 
or,  in  other  words,  until  the  class  that  is  born 
every  second,  singly — and  sometimes  as  twins- 
has  grown  plentiful  enough  to  furnish  a  feast 
ing.  Forth  he  comes  then,  gobbling  up  Brer 
Ant,  along  with  his  fullness  and  his  richness, 
his  heirs  and  his  assigns,  his  substance  and  his 
stock  in  trade. 

To  make  the  illustration  concrete,  we  might 
say  that  were  there  no  ants  there  would  be  no 
Wall  Street;  and  by  the  same  token  were  there 
no  anteaters  there  would  be  no  Wall  Street 
either.  Without  anteaters  the  ants  would 
multiply  and  replenish  the  earth  beyond  com 
putation.  Without  ants  the  anteaters  would 
have  to  live  upon  each  other — which  would  be 
bad  for  them  but  better  for  the  rest  of  creation. 
Wax  is  the  greatest  of  the  anteaters — it  feeds 
upon  the  bodies  of  the  ants.  Kings  upon  their 
[142] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

thrones,  devisers  of  false  doctrines,  crooked 
politicians,  grafters,  con  men,  card  sharks, 
thimbleriggers — all  these  are  anteaters  batten 
ing  on  the  substance  of  simple-hearted,  earnest- 
minded  ants.  The  ant  believes  what  you  tell 
him;  the  greedsome  anteater  thrives  upon  this 
credulity.  Roughly,  then,  for  purposes  of 
classification,  one  may  divide  the  world  at  large 
into  two  groups — in  this  larger  group  here  the 
ants,  in  that  smaller  group  there  the  anteaters. 

So  much,  for  purposes  of  argument,  being 
conceded,  we  may  safely  figure  Emanue].  Moon 
as  belonging  in  the  category  of  the  ants,  pure 
and  simple — reasonably  pure  and  undeniably 
simple.  However,  at  the  time  whereof  I  write 
I  doubt  whether  it  had  ever  occurred  to  any 
one  to  liken  him  to  an  ant.  His  mother  had 
called  him  Mannie,  his  employers  called  him 
plain  Moon,  and  to  practically  everybody  else 
he  was  just  little  Mr.  Moon,  who  worked  in  the 
Commonwealth  Bank.  He  had  started  there, 
in  the  bank,  as  office  boy;  by  dint  of  years  of 
untiring  fidelity  to  the  interests  of  that  institu 
tion  he  had  worked  up  to  the  place  of  assistant 
cashier,  salary  seventy-five  dollars  a  month. 
Privately  he  nursed  an  ambition  to  become,  in 
time,  cashier,  with  a  cashier's  full  powers.  It 
might  be  added  that  in  this  desire  he  stood 
practically  alone. 

Emanuel  Moon  was  a  little  man,  rising  of 
thirty-five,  who  believed  that  the  Whale  swal 
lowed  Jonah,  that  if  you  swore  a  certain  form  of 
[143] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


oath  you  were  certain  of  hell-fire,  and  that  Mr. 
Hiram  Blair,  president  of  the  Commonwealth 
Bank,  hung  the  Big  Dipper.  If  the  Bible  had 
put  it  the  other  way  round  he  would  have  be 
lieved  as  sincerely  that  it  was  Jonah  who  swal 
lowed  the  Whale.  He  had  a  wistful,  bashful 
little  smile,  an  air  of  being  perpetually  busy, 
and  a  round,  mild  eye  the  colour  of  a  boiled 
oyster.  He  also  had  a  most  gentle  manner  and 
the  long,  prehensile  upper  lip  that  is  found  only 
in  the  South  American  tapir  and  the  confirmed 
clarinet  player.  Emanuel  Moon  had  one  be 
setting  sin,  and  only  one — he  just  would  play  the 
clarinet. 

On  an  average  of  three  nights  a  week  he  with 
drew  himself  from  the  company  assembled 
about  the  base-burner  stove  in  the  parlour 
if  it  were  winter,  or  upon  the  front  porch 
of  Mrs.  Teenie  Merrill's  boarding  house  if 
it  were  seasonable  weather,  and  went  up  to 
his  room  on  the  third  floor  and  played  the 
clarinet.  Some  said  he  played  it  and  some  that 
he  merely  played  at  it.  He  knew  Annie  Laurie 
off  by  heart  and  for  a  term  of  years  had  been 
satisfied  in  that  knowledge.  Now  he  was 
learning  another  air — The  Last  Rose  of  Summer. 

He  prosecuted  his  musical  education  on  what 
he  called  his  off  evenings.  Wednesday  night 
he  went  to  prayer  meeting  and  Sunday  night 
to  the  regular  church  service.  Tuesday  night 
he  always  spent  at  his  lodge;  and  perhaps  once 
in  a  fortnight  he  called  upon  Miss  Katie  Rouser, 
[  144] 


THE      LIFE     OF      AN      ANT 

who  taught  in  the  High  School  and  for  whom  he 
was  believed  to  entertain  sentiments  that  did 
him  credit,  even  though  he  had  never  found 
words  in  which  to  voice  them. 

At  the  lodge  he  served  on  the  committees 
which  did  the  hard  work;  that,  as  a  general 
proposition,  meant  also  the  thankless  work. 
If  things  went  well  someone  else  took  the  credit; 
if  they  went  ill  Emanuel  and  his  colabourers 
shared  the  blame.  The  conditions  had  always 
been  so— when  he  was  a  small  boy  and  when  he 
was  a  youth,  growing  up.  In  his  adolescence, 
if  there  was  a  picnic  in  contemplation  or  a  straw 
ride  or  a  barn  dance,  Mannie  had  been  gra 
ciously  permitted  by  common  consent  of  all  con 
cerned  to  arrange  with  the  livery-stable  man 
for  the  teams,  to  hire  the  coloured  string  band, 
to  bargain  with  the  owner  of  the  picnic  grounds 
or  the  barn,  to  see  to  ice  for  the  ice-water  barrel 
and  lemons  for  the  lemonade  bucket. 

While  he  thus  busied  himself  the  other  youths 
made  dates  for  the  occasion  with  all  the  de 
sirable  girls.  Hence  it  was  that  on  the  festal 
date  Emanuel  went  partnerless  to  the  party; 
and  this  was  just  as  well,  too,  seeing  that  right 
up  until  the  time  of  starting  he  would  be  com 
pletely  occupied  with  last-moment  details,  and, 
after  that,  what  with  apologising  for  any  slip 
ups  that  might  have  occurred,  and  being  scolded 
and  ordered  about  on  errands  and  called  upon 
to  explain  this  or  that,  would  have  small  time 
to  play  the  squire  to  any  young  person  of  the 
[145]' 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


opposite  sex,  even  had  there  been   one  con 
venient. 

It  was  so  at  the  bank,  where  he  did  more 
work  than  anybody  and  got  less  pay  than  any 
body.  It  was  so,  as  I  have  just  stated,  at  the 
lodge.  In  a  word,  Emanuel  had  no  faculty  as 
an  executive,  but  an  enormous  capacity  for 
executing.  The  earth  is  full  of  him.  Where- 
ever  five  or  more  are  gathered  together  there  is 
present  at  least  one  of  the  Emanuel  Moons  of 
this  world. 

It  had  been  a  hot,  long  summer,  even  for  a 
climate  where  the  summers  are  always  long  and 
nearly  always  hot;  and  at  the  fag  end  of  it 
Emanuel  inclined  strongly  toward  a  desire  for 
a  short  rest.  Diffidently  he  managed  to  voice 
his  mood  and  his  need  to  Mr.  Blair.  That 
worthy  gentleman  had  but  just  returned  home, 
a  giant  refreshed,  after  a  month  spent  in  the 
North  Carolina  mountains.  He  felt  so  fit,  so 
fine,  so  robust,  he  took  it  as  a  personal  grievance 
that  any  about  him  should  not  likewise  be  feel 
ing  fit.  He  cut  Emanuel  off  pretty  short. 
Vacations,  he  intimated,  were  for  those  whose 
years  and  whose  services  in  behalf  of  humanity 
entitled  them  to  vacations;  young  men  who 
expected  to  get  along  in  business  had  best  rid 
their  thoughts  of  all  such  pampered  hankerings. 

Emanuel  took  the  rebuke  in  good  grace,  as 
was  his  way;  but  that  evening  at  the  supper 
table  he  created  some  excitement  among  his 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

fellow  boarders  by  quietly  and  unostentatiously 
fainting,  face  forward,  into  a  saucer  of  pear 
preserves  that  was  mostly  juice.  He  was  re 
moved  to  his  room  and  put  to  bed,  and  attended 
by  Doctor  Lake.  The  next  morning  he  was 
not  able  to  go  to  the  bank.  On  being  apprised 
of  the  situation  Mr.  Blair  very  thoughtfully 
abated  of  his  previous  resolution  and  sent 
Emanuel  word  that  he  might  have  a  week  or 
even  ten  days  off — at  his  own  expense — wherein 
to  recuperate. 

Some  thirty-six  hours  later,  therefore,  Eman 
uel  might  have  been  found  on  board  the  fast 
train  bound  for  Louisville,  looking  a  trifle  pulled 
down  and  shaky,  but  filled  with  a  great  yearn 
ing.  In  Louisville,  at  a  certain  establishment 
doing  a  large  mail-order  business,  was  to  be 
had  for  thirty-eight  dollars,  list  price,  fifteen 
and  five  off  for  cash,  a  clarinet  that  was  to  his 
present  infirm  and  leaky  clarinet  as  minted 
gold  is  to  pot  metal. 

To  be  sure,  this  delectable  instrument  might 
be  purchased,  sight  unseen,  but  with  privilege 
of  examination,  through  the  handy  medium]  of 
the  parcel  post;  the  house  handling  it  was  in  all 
respects  reliable  and  lived  up  to  the  printed 
promise  of  the  catalogue,  but  to  Emanuel  half 
the  pride  and  pleasure  of  becoming  its  proprietor 
lay  in  going  into  the  place  and  asking  to  see 
such  and  such  a  clarinet,  and  fingering  it  and 
testing  its  tone,  and  finally  putting  down  the 
money  and  carrying  it  off  with  him  under  his 
[147] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


arm.  He  meant,  first  of  all,  to  buy  his  new 
clarinet;  for  the  rest  his  plans  were  hazy.  He 
might  stay  on  in  Louisville  a  few  days  or  he 
might  go  elsewhere.  He  might  even  return 
home  and  spend  the  remainder  of  his  vacation 
perfecting  himself  in  his  still  faulty  rendition 
of  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer. 

For  an  hour  or  so  after  boarding  the  train  he 
viewed  the  passing  scenery  as  it  revealed  itself 
through  the  day-coach  window  and  speculated 
regarding  the  personalities  of  his  fellow  passen 
gers.  After  that  hour  or  so  he  began  to  nod. 
Presently  he  slumbered,  with  his  head  bobbing 
against  the  seat-back  and  one  arm  dangling  in 
the  aisle.  A  sense  of  being  touched  half  roused 
him;  a  moment  later  he  opened  his  eyes  with 
the  feeling  that  he  had  lost  his  hat  or  was  about 
to  lose  it.  Alongside  him  stood  a  well-dressed 
man  of,  say,  thirty-eight  or  forty,  who  regarded 
him  cordially  and  who  held  between  the  long, 
slender  fingers  of  his  right  hand  a  little  rectangle 
of  blue  cardboard,  having  punch  marks  in  it. 

"Excuse  me,  friend,"  said  this  man,,  "but 
didn't  this  fall  out  of  your  hat?  I  picked  it  up 
here  on  the  floor  alongside  you." 

"I  reckon  maybe  it  did,"  said  Emanuel,  re 
moving  his  hat  and  noticing  that  the  customary 
decoration  conferred  by  the  conductor  was 
absent  from  its  band.  "I'm  certainly  much 
obliged  to  you,  sir." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  the  stranger.  "Bet- 
ter  stick  it  in  good  and  tight  this  time.  They 
[148] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

might  tiy  to  collect  a  second  fare  from  you  if 
you  couldn't  show  your  credentials.  Remem 
ber,  don't  you,  the  story  about  the  calf  that  ate 
up  his  express  tag  and  what  the  old  nigger  man 
said  about  it?" 

The  stranger's  accent  stamped  him  as  a 
Northerner;  his  manner  revealed  him  indubi 
tably  as  a  man  of  the  world — withal  it  was  a 
genial  manner.  He  bestowed  a  suit  case  along 
side  in  the  aisle  and  slipped  into  the  seat  facing 
Emanuel.  Emanuel  vaguely  felt  flattered.  It 
had  promised  to  be  rather  a  lonely  journey. 

"You  don't  mind  my  sitting  here  a  bit,  do 
you?"  added  the  man  after  he  was  seated. 

"Not  at  all — glad  to  have  you,"  said  Eman 
uel,  meaning  it.  "Nice  weather — if  it  wasn't 
so  warm,"  he  continued,  making  conversation. 

It  started  with  the  weather;  but  you  know 
how  talk  runs  along.  At  the  end  of  perhaps 
ten  minutes  it  had  somehow  worked  around  to 
amusements — checkers  and  chess  and  cards. 

"Speaking  of  cards  now,"  said  the  stranger, 
"I  like  a  little  game  once  in  a  while  myself. 
Helps  the  time  to  pass  away  when  nothing  else 
will.  Fact  is,  I  usually  carry  a  deck  along  with 
me  just  for  that  purpose.  Fact  is,  I've  got 
a  new  deck  with  me  now,  I  think."  He  fumbled 
in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  light  flannel  coat  and 
glanced  about  him.  "Tell  you  what — sup 
pose  we  play  a  few  hands  of  poker — show-down, 
you  know — for  ten  cents  a  corner,  say,  or  a 
quarter?  We  could  use  my  suit  case  for  a  card 
[149] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


table  by  resting  it  on  our  knees  between  us." 
He  reached  out  into  the  aisle. 

"I'm  much  obliged,"  said  Emanuel  with  an 
indefinable  sense  of  pain  at  having  to  decline 
so  friendly  an  invitation;  "but,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  make  it  a  point  never  to  touch  cards  at 
all.  It  wouldn't  do — in  my  position.  You 
see,  I'm  in  a  bank  at  home." 

With  newly  quickened  alertness  the  stranger's 
eyes  narrowed.  He  put  the  cards  back  into 
his  pocket  and  straightened  up  attentively. 
"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  see.  Well,  that  being 
the  case,  I  don't  blame  you."  Plainly  he  had 
not  been  hurt  by  Emanuel's  refusal  to  join  in  so 
innocent  a  pastime  as  dealing  show-down  hands 
at  ten  cents  a  side.  On  the  contrary  he  warmed 
visibly.  "A  young  man  in  a  bank  can't  be  too 
careful — especially  if  it's  a  small  town,  where 
everybody  knows  everybody  else's  business. 
You  let  a  young  fellow  that  works  in  a  bank  in  a 
small  town,  or  even  a  medium-sized  town,  play 
a  few  hands  of  poker  and,  first  thing  you  know, 
it's  all  over  the  place  that  he's  gambling  and 
they've  got  an  expert  on  his  books.  Let's  see 
now — where  was  it  you  said  you  lived?" 

Emanuel  told  him. 

"Well,  now,  that's  a  funny  thing!  I  used 
to  know  a  man  in  your  town.  Let's  see — what 
was  his  name?  Parker?  Parsons?"  He  paused. 

Emanuel  shook  his  head. 

"Perkins?  Perkins?  Could  it  have  been 
Perkins?"  essayed  the  other  tentatively,  his 
[150] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN      ANT 

eyes  fixed  keenly  on  the  ingenuous  countenance 
of  his  opposite;  and  then,  as  EmanueFs  head 
nodded  forward  affirmatively :  "Why,  that's 
the  name — Perkins,"  proclaimed  the  stranger 
with  a  little  smile  of  triumph. 

"Probably  J.  W.  Perkins,"  said  Emanuel. 
"Mr.  J.  W.  Perkins  is  our  leading  hardware 
merchant.  He  banks  with  us;  I  see  him  every 
day — pretty  near  it." 

"No;  not  J.  W.  Perkins,"  instantly  con 
fessed  his  companion.  "That's  the  name  all 
right  enough,  but  not  the  initials.  Didn't  this 
Mr.  Perkins  have  a  brother,  or  a  cousin  or  some 
thing,  who  died?" 

"Oh,  I  know  who  you  mean,  now,"  said  Eman 
uel,  glad  to  be  able  to  help  with  the  identifica 
tion.  "Alfred  Perkins — he  died  two  years  ago 
this  coming  October." 

"How  old  was  he?"  The  Northerner  had  the 
air  about  him  of  being  determined  to  make  sure. 

"About  fifty,  I  judge — maybe  fifty-two  or 
three." 

"And  didn't  they  use  to  call  him  Al  for 
short?" 

"Yes;  nearly  everybody  did — Mr.  Al  Per 
kins." 

"That's  the  party,"  agreed  the  other.  "Al 
Perkins !  I  knew  him  well.  Strange,  now,  that 
I  can't  think  where  it  was  I  met  him — I  move 
round  so  much  in  my  business,  being  on  the 
road  as  a  travelling  man,  it's  hard  keeping  track 
of  people;  but  I  know  we  spent  a  week  or  two 

[151] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


together  somewhere  or  other.  Speaking  of 
names,  mine  is  Caruthers — John  P.  Caruthers. 
Sorry  I  haven't  got  a  card  with  me — I  ran  out 
of  cards  yesterday." 

"Mine,"  said  our  townsman,  "is  Emanuel 
Moon." 

"Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Moon,"  said  Mr. 
Caruthers  as  he  sought  Emanuel's  right  hand 
and  shook  it  heartily. 

"Very  glad  indeed.  You  don't  meet  many 

people  of  your  name Oh,  by  Jove,  that's 

another  funny  thing!" 

"What?"  said  Emanuel. 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers,  "I  used  to  have 
a  pal — a  good  friend — with  your  name;  Robert 
Moon  it  was.  He  lived  in  Detroit,  Michigan. 
Fine  fellow,  Bob  was.  I  wonder  could  old  Bob 
Moon  have  been  your  cousin?" 

"No,"  said  Emanuel  almost  regretfully;  "I'm 
afraid  not.  All  my  people  live  South,  so  far 
as  I  know." 

"Well,  anyhow,  you'd  enjoy  knowing  old 
Bob,"  went  on  the  companionable  Mr.  Ca 
ruthers.  "Have  a  smoke?" 

He  produced  both  cigars  and  cigarettes. 
Emanuel  said  he  never  smoked,  so  Mr.  Ca 
ruthers  lighted  a  cigar. 

Up  to  this  point  the  conversation  had  been 
more  or  less  general.  Now,  somehow,  it  took  a 
rather  personal  and  direct  trend.  Mr.  Caruthers 
proved  to  be  an  excellent  listener,  although  he 
asked  quite  a  number  of  leading  questions  as 
[152] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN      ANT 

they  went  along.  He  evinced  a  kindly  cu 
riosity  regarding  Emanuel's  connection  with  the 
bank.  He  was  interested  in  banks,  it  seemed; 
his  uncle,  now  deceased,  had  been,  he  said,  a 
very  prominent  banker  in  Springfield,  Mas 
sachusetts. 

Emanuel  had  a  role  that  was  new  to  him;  a 
pleasing  role  though.  Nearly  always  in  com 
pany  he  had  to  play  audience;  now  he  held  the 
centre  of  the  stage,  with  another  listening  to 
what  he  might  say,  and,  what  was  more,  listen 
ing  with  every  sign  of  deep  attention.  He 
spoke  at  length,  Emanuel  did,  of  the  bank,  its 
size,  its  resources,  its  liabilities,  its  physical 
appearance  and  its  personnel,  leading  off  with 
its  president  and  scaling  down  to  its  black 
janitor.  He  referred  to  Mr.  Blair's  crustiness 
of  manner  toward  persons  of  lesser  authority, 
which  manner,  he  hastened  to  explain,  was  quite 
all  right  if  you  only  understood  Mr.  Blair's 
little  ways. 

He  mentioned  in  passing  that  Herb  Kivil, 
the  cashier,  was  addicted  to  tennis,  and  that  on 
Tuesdays  and  Fridays,  when  Herb  left  early 
to  play  tennis,  he,  Moon,  closed  up  the  vault 
and  took  over  certain  other  duties  which  or 
dinarily  fell  to  Herb.  From  the  bank  he  pro 
gressed  by  natural  stages  to  Mrs.  MorrilPs 
boarding  house  and  from  there  to  his  own  in 
dividual  tastes  and  likings.  In  this  connection 
it  was  inevitable  that  the  subject  of  clarinet 
playing  should  obtrude.  Continuing  along  this 
[153] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


strain  Emanuel  felt  moved  to  disclose  his  prin 
cipal  object  in  journeying  to  Louisville  at  this 
particular  time. 

"There's  a  store  there  that  carries  a  clarinet 
that  I'm  sort  of  interested  in,"  he  stated — but 
got  no  farther,  for  here  Mr.  Caruthers  broke  in 
on  him. 

"Well,  sir,  it's  a  mighty  little  world  after 
all,"  he  exclaimed.  "  First  you  drop  your  punch 
check  out  of  your  hat  and  I  come  along  and  pick 
it  up,  and  I  sit  down  here  and  we  get  acquainted. 
Then  I  find  out  that  I  used  to  know  a  man  in 
your  town — Abner  Perkins." 

"Alfred,"  corrected  Mr.  Moon  gently. 

"Sure — Alfred  Perkins.  That's  what  I  meant 
to  say  but  my  tongue  slipped.  Then  you  tell 
me  your  name,  and  it  turns  out  I've  got  a  good 
friend  that,  if  he's  not  your  own  cousin,  ought 
to  be  on  account  of  the  name  being  the  same. 
One  coincidence  right  after  another!  And  then, 
on  top  of  all  that,  you  tell  me  you  want  to  buy 
a  new  clarinet.  And  that's  the  most  curious 

part  of  it  all,  because Say,  Moon,  you  must 

have  heard  of  Gatling  &  Moore,  of  Boston, 
New  York,  and  Paris,  France." 

"I  can't  say  as  I  ever  did.  I  don't  seem  to 
place  them,"  admitted  Emanuel. 

"If  you're  interested  in  a  clarinet  you  ought 
to  know  about  them,  because  Gatling  &  Moore 
are  just  the  biggest  wholesale  dealers  in  musical 
instruments  in  the  United  States;  that's  all— 
just  the  whole  United  States.  And  I — the 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

same  fellow  that's  sitting  right  here  facing  you — 
I  travel  this  territory  for  Gatling  &  Moore. 
Didn't  I  say  this  was  a  small  world?" 

A  small  world  indeed — and  a  cozily  com 
fortable  one  as  well,  seeing  that  by  its  very 
compactness  one  was  thrown  into  contact  with 
so  pleasing  a  personality  as  this  Mr.  John 
Caruthers  betrayed.  This  was  the  thought 
that  exhilarated  Mr.  Emanuel  Moon  as  he 
answered : 

"You  sell  clarinets?  Then  you  can  tell  me 
exactly  what  I  ought  to  pay— 

"No;  don't  get  me  wrong,"  Mr.  Caruthers 
hastened  to  explain.  "I  said  I  travelled  for 
Gatling  &  Moore.  You  see,  they  sell  every 
thing,  nearly — musical  instruments  is  just  one 
of  their  lines.  I  handle — er — sporting  goods — 
playing  cards,  poker  chips,  guns,  pistols,  athletic 
supplies;  all  like  that,  you  understand.  That's 
my  branch  of  the  business;  musical  goods  is 
another  branch. 

"But  what  I  was  going  to  suggest  was  this: 
Izzy  Gottlieb,  who's  the  head  of  the  musical 
department  in  the  New  York  office,  is  one  of 
the  best  friends  I've  got  on  this  earth.  If  I  was 
to  walk  in  and  say  to  Izzy — yes,  even  if  I  was 
to  write  in  to  him  and  tell  him  I  had  a  friend 
who  was  figuring  on  buying  a  clarinet — I  know 
exactly  what  old  Izzy  would  do.  Izzy  would 
just  naturally  turn  the  whole  shop  upside  down 
until  he  found  the  niftiest  little  old  clarinet 
there  was  in  stock,  and  as  a  favour  to  me  he'd 
[  155  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


let  us  have  it  at  just  exactly  cost.  That's  what 
good  old  Izzy  would  do  in  a  blooming  minute. 
Altogether  it  ought  to  come  to  about  half  what 
you'd  pay  for  the  identical  same  article  out  of  a 
retail  place  down  in  this  country," 

"But  could  you,  sir — would  you  be  willing 
to  do  that  much  for  a  stranger?"  Stress  of 
emotion  made  Emanuel's  voice  husky. 

"If  you  don't  believe  I  would  do  just  that 
very  thing,  why,  a  dime'll  win  you  a  trip  to 
the  Holy  Land!"  answered  back  the  engaging 
Caruthers  beamingly  and  enthusiastically. 

Then  his  tone  grew  earnest:  "Listen  here, 
Moon :  no  man  that  I  take  a  liking  to  is  a  stran 
ger  to  me — not  any  more.  And  I've  got  to  own 
up  to  it — I  like  you.  You're  my  kind  of  a  man 
—frank,  open,  on  the  level;  and  yet  not  any 
body's  easy  mark  either.  I'll  bet  you're  a 
pretty  good  hand  at  sizing  up  people  offhand 
yourself.  Oh,  I  knew  you'd  do,  the  minute 
I  laid  eyes  on  you." 

"Thank  you;  much  obliged,"  murmured 
Emanuel.  To  all  intents  he  was  overcome. 

"Now,  then,"  continued  his  new-found  friend 
warmly,  "let  me  suggest  this:  You  go  ahead 
and  look  at  the  clarinet  that  this  piking  Louis 
ville  concern's  got  for  sale  if  you  want  to,  but 
don't  buy.  Just  look — there's  no  harm  in  that. 
But  don't  invest. 

"I'm  on  my  way  back  to  New  York  now  to — to 
lay  in  my  new  lines  for  the  trade.  I'll  see  old 
Izzy  the  first  thing  after  I  blow  in  and  I'll  get 
[156] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN      ANT 

the  niftiest  clarinet  that  ever  played  a  tune — 
get  it  at  actual  cost,  mind  you!  I'll  stick  it 
down  into  one  of  my  trunks  and  bring  it  back 
with  me  down  this  way. 

"Let's  see" — he  consulted  a  small  memo 
randum  book — "I  ought  to  strike  this  territory 
again  in  about  ten  days  or  two  weeks.  We'll 
make  it  two  weeks,  to  be  sure.  Um — this  is 
Wednesday.  I'll  hit  your  town  on  Tuesday, 
the  twenty-ninth — that's  two  weeks  from  yes 
terday.  I  ought  to  get  in  from  Memphis  some 
time  during  the  afternoon.  I'll  come  to  your 
bank  to  find  you.  You're  always  there  on 
Tuesdays,  ain't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Emanuel.  "Don't  you  re 
member  my  telling  you  that  on  Tuesdays  Herb 
Kivil  always  left  early  to  play  tennis  and  I 
closed  up?" 

"So  you  did,"  confirmed  Mr.  Caruthers. 
"I'd  forgotten  your  telling  me  that." 

"For  that  matter,"  supplemented  Emanuel, 
"I'm  there  every  day  till  three  anyhow,  and 
sometimes  later;  so  if ' 

"We'll  make  it  Tuesday,  the  twenty-ninth, 
to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers  with  an  air  of 
finality. 

"If  you  should  want  the  money  now— 
began  Emanuel;  and  he  started  to  haul  out  the 
little  flat  leather  purse  with  the  patent  clasp 
wherein  he  carried  his  carefully  saved  cash  assets. 

With   a   large,   generous   gesture   the   other 

checked  him. 

[157] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"Hold  on!"  counselled  Caruthers.  "You 
needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  old  boy.  I  don't 
even  know  what  the  thing  is  going  to  cost  yet. 
Izzy'll  charge  it  to  me  on  the  books  and  then 
you  can  settle  with  me  when  I  bring  it  to  you,  if 
that's  satisfactory." 

He  stood  up,  carefully  flicking  some  cigar 
ashes  off  the  trailing  ends  of  his  four-in-hand 
tie,  and  glanced  at  a  watch. 

"  Well,  it's  nearly  six  o'clock.  Time  flies  when 
a  fellow  is  in  good  company,  don't  it?  We'll  be 
in  Louisville  in  less  than  an  hour,  won't  we? — 
if  we're  on  time.  I've  got  to  quit  you  there; 
I'm  going  on  to  Cincy  to-night.  Tell  you  what 
—let's  slip  into  the  diner  and  have  a  bite  and  a 
little  nip  of  something  together  first — I  want  to 
see  as  much  of  you  as  I  can.  You  take  a  little 
drink  once  in  a  while,  don't  you?" 

"I  drink  a  glass  of  light  beer  occasionally," 
admitted  Emanuel. 

Probably  in  his  whole  life  he  had  consumed  as 
much  as  five  commercial  quarts  of  that  liquid, 
half  a  pint  at  a  time. 

"Fine  business!"  said  Caruthers.  "Beer 
happens  to  be  my  regular  stand-by  too.  Come 
on,  then."  And  he  led  the  way  forward  for  the 
transported  Emanuel. 

They  said  at  the  bank  and  at  the  boarding 

house  that  Moon  looked  better  for  his  week's 

lay-off,  none  of  them  knowing,  of  course,  what 

had  come  into  the  little  man's  dun-coloured  life. 

[158] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

On  the  twenty-eighth  of  the  month  he  was  so 
abstracted  that  Mr.  Blair,  desiring  his  presence 
for  the  moment  in  the  president's  office,  had  to 
call  him  twice,  a  thing  which  so  annoyed  Mr. 
Blair  that  the  second  time  he  fairly  shouted 
EmanueFs  name;  and  when  Emanuel  came 
hurrying  into  his  presence  inquired  somewhat 
acidly  whether  Emanuel  was  suffering  from  any 
auricular  affection.  On  the  morning  of  the 
twenty-ninth  Emanuel  was  in  quite  a  little  fever 
of  anticipation.  The  morning  passed;  the  noon 
or  dinner  hour  arrived  and  passed. 

It  was  one-thirty.  The  street  drowsed  in  the 
early  autumnal  sunshine,  and  in  front  of  his 
bookstore,  in  a  tilted-back  chair,  old  Mr.  Wilcox 
for  a  spell  slumbered  audibly.  There  is  a  kind 
of  dog — not  so  numerous  since  automobiles  have 
come  into  such  general  and  fatal  use — that 
sought  always  the  middle  of  the  road  as  a  suit 
able  spot  to  take  a  nap  in,  arousing  with  a  yelp 
when  wheels  or  hoofs  seemed  directly  over  him 
and,  having  escaped  annihilation  by  an  eighth 
of  an  inch,  moving  over  perhaps  ten  feet  and 
lying  down  again  in  the  perilous  pathway  of 
traffic.  One  of  this  breed  slept  now,  undis 
turbed  except  by  flies,  at  the  corner  of  Front 
and  Franklin.  For  the  time  being  he  was 
absolutely  safe.  Emanuel  had  been  to  his  din 
ner  and  had  returned.  He  was  beginning  to 
worry.  About  two-thirty,  just  after  the  cashier 
had  taken  his  tennis  racket  and  gone  for  the  day, 
Emanuel  answered  a  ring  at  the  telephone. 
[159] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


Over  the  wire  there  came  to  him  the  well- 
remembered  sound  of  the  blithe  Carutherian 
voice: 

"That  you,  old  man?"  spake  Mr.  Caruthers 
jovially.  "Well,  I'm  here,  according  to  promise. 
Just  got  in  from  down  the  road." 

"Did — you — bring — it?"  inquired  Emanuel, 
almost  tremulously. 

"The  clarinet?  You  bet  your  life  I  brought  it 
— and  she's  a  bird  too." 

"I'm  ever  so  much  obliged,"  said  Emanuel. 
"I  don't  know  how  I  can  ever  thank  you — 
going  to  all  that  trouble  on  my  account.  Are 
you  at  the  hotel?  I'll  be  over  there  just  as  soon 
as  I  can  close  up — I  can't  leave  here  till  three." 

"Stay  right  where  you  are,"  bade  his  friend. 
"I'll  be  over  to  see  you  inside  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  At  ten  minutes 
before  three  he  walked  in,  the  mould  of  city 
fashion  in  all  his  outward  aspects;  and  when 
Emanuel  had  disposed  of  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg, 
who  dropped  in  to  ask  what  Felsburg  Brothers' 
balance  was,  and  when  Mr.  Felsburg  had  gone, 
Caruthers'  right  hand  and  Emanuel's  met  in  an 
affectionate  clasp  across  the  little  shelf  of  the 
cashier's  window.  Followed  then  an  exchange 
of  inquiries  and  assurances  touching  on  the  state 
of  health  and  well-being  of  each  gentleman. 

"I'd  like  mightily  to  ask  you  inside,"  said 
Emanuel  next,  anxious  to  extend  all  possible 
hospitalities;  "but  it's  strictly  against  the  rules. 
[160] 


THE      LIFE      OF      AN      ANT 

Take  a  chair  there,  won't  you,  and  wait  for  me — 
I'll  be  only  a  few  minutes  or  so." 

Instead  of  taking  one  of  the  row  of  chairs 
that  stood  in  the  front  of  the  old-fashioned  bank, 
Mr.  Caruthers  paused  before  the  wicket,  firing 
metropolitan  pleasantries  across  at  the  little 
man,  who  bustled  about  inside  the  railed-off 
inclosure,  putting  books  and  papers  in  their 
proper  places. 

"Everybody's  gone  but  me,  as  it  happens," 
he  explained,  proud  to  exhibit  to  Mr.  Caruthers 
the  extent  and  scope  of  his  present  responsi 
bilities. 

"Nobody  on  deck  but  you,  eh?"  said 
Caruthers,  looking  about  him. 

"Nobody  but  me,"  answered  back  Emanuel; 
"and  in  about  a  minute  and  a  half  I'll  be 
through  too." 

The  cash  was  counted.  He  carried  it  into 
the  depths  of  the  ancient  and  cumbersome  vault, 
which  blocked  off  a  section  of  the  wall  behind 
the  cashier's  desk,  and  in  their  appointed  niches 
bestowed,  also,  certain  large  ledgerlike  tomes. 
He  closed  and  locked  the  inner  steel  door  and  was 
in  the  act  of  swinging  to  the  heavy  outer  door. 

"Look  here  a  minute!"  came  sharply  from 
Mr.  Caruthers. 

It  was  like  a  command.  Obeying  involun 
tarily,  Emanuel  faced  about.  From  under  his 
coat,  where  it  had  been  hidden  against  his  left 
side,  Mr.  Caruthers,  still  standing  at  the  wicket, 
was  drawing  forth  something  long  and  black 

[161] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


and  slim,  and  of  a  most  exceeding  shininess— 
something  with  silver  trimmings  on  it  and  a 
bell  mouth — a  clarinet  that  was  all  a  clarinet 
should  be,  and  yet  a  half  brother  to  a  saxophone. 

"I  sort  of  thought  you'd  be  wanting  to  get 
a  flash  at  it  right  away,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers, 
holding  the  magnificent  instrument  up  in  plain 
sight.  "So  I  brought  it  along — for  a  surprise." 

With  joy  Emanuel  Moon's  round  eyes  wid 
ened  and  moistened.  After  the  fashion  of  a 
rabbit  suddenly  confronted  with  lettuce  his 
lower  face  twitched.  His  overhanging  upper 
lip  quivered  to  wrap  itself  about  that  virgin 
mouthpiece,  as  his  fingers  itched  to  fondle  that 
slender  polished  fountain  of  potential  sweet 
melodies.  And  he  forgot  other  things. 

He  came  out  from  behind  the  counter  and 
almost  with  reverence  took  the  splendid  thing 
from  the  smiling  Mr.  Caruthers.  He  did  re 
member  to  lock  the  street  door  as  they  issued 
to  the  sidewalk;  but  from  that  juncture  on, 
until  he  discovered  himself  with  Caruthers  in 
Caruthers'  room  on  the  third  floor  of  the  hotel, 
diagonally  across  the  street  and  down  the  block 
from  the  bank,  and  was  testing  the  instrument 
with  soft,  tentative  toots  and  finding  to  his 
extreme  gratification  that  this  clarinet  bleated, 
not  in  sheeplike  bleats,  as  his  old  one  did,  but 
rather  mooed  in  a  deep  bass  voice  suggestive 
of  cows,  all  that  passed  was  to  Mr.  Moon  but 
a  confused  blur  of  unalloyed  joyousness. 

Indeed,  from  that  point  thenceforward  he 
[162] 


THE      LIFE      OF     AN     ANT 

was  not  quite  sure  of  anything  except  that,  over 
his  protests,  Mr.  Caruthers  declined  to  accept 
any  reimbursement  whatsoever  for  the  cost 
of  the  new  clarinet,  he  explaining  that,  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of  that  kindly  soul,  Izzy  Gott 
lieb,  the  requisite  outlay  had  amounted  to  so 
trifling  a  sum  as  not  to  be  worthy  of  the  time 
required  for  further  discussion;  and  that,  fol 
lowing  this,  he  played  Annie  Laurie  all  the  way 
through,  and  essayed  the  first  bars  of  The  Last 
Rose  of  Summer,  while  Mr.  Caruthers  sat  by 
listening  and  smoking,  and  seemingly  gratified 
to  the  utmost  at  having  been  the  means  of 
bringing  this  pleasure  to  Mr.  Moon. 

If  Mr.  Caruthers  was  moved,  in  chance  in 
tervals,  to  ask  certain  questions  touching  upon 
the  banking  business,  with  particular  reference 
to  the  methods  employed  in  conducting  and 
safeguarding  the  Commonwealth  Bank,  over 
the  way,  Emanuel  doubtlessly  answered  him 
full  and  truthfully,  even  though  his  thoughts 
for  the  moment  were  otherwise  engaged. 

In  less  than  no  time  at  all — so  it  appeared  to 
Emanuel — six  o'clock  arrived,  which  in  our 
town  used  to  mean  the  hour  for  hot  supper, 
except  on  Sunday,  when  it  meant  the  hour  for 
cold  supper;  and  Emanuel  reluctantly  got  up  to 
go.  But  Caruthers  would  not  listen  to  any 
suggestions  of  their  parting  for  yet -a  while. 
Exigencies  of  business  would  carry  him  on  his 
lonesome  way  the  next  morning;  he  had  just 
stopped  over  to  see  Emanuel,  anyway,  and 
,[163] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


naturally  he  wished  to  enjoy  as  much  of  his 
society  as  was  possible  during  a  sojourn  so  brief. 

"Moon,"  he  ordered,  "you  stay  right  where 
you  are.  We'll  have  something  to  eat  together 
here.  I'll  call  a  waiter  and  we'll  have  it  served 
up  here  in  this  room,  so's  we  can  be  sort  of 
private  and  sociable,  and  afterward  you  can 
play  your  clarinet  some  more.  How  does  that 
little  programme  strike  you?" 

It  struck  Emanuel  agreeably  hard.  It  was 
rarely  that  he  dined  out,  and  to  dine  under  such 
circumstances  as  these,  in  the  company  of  so 
fascinating  and  so  kindly  a  gentleman  as  Mr. 
John  P.  Caruthers,  of  the  North — well,  his  cup 
was  simply  overflowing,  that's  all. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  stay,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't 
think  I'm  imposing  on  your  kindness.  I  was 
thinking  of  asking  you  to  go  to  Mrs.  Merrill's 
with  me  for  supper — if  you  would." 

"We  can  have  a  better  time  here,"  said 
Caruthers.  He  stepped  over  to  the  wall  tele 
phone.  "Have  a  cocktail  first?  No?  Then 
neither  will  I.  But  a  couple  of  bottles  of  beer 
won't  hurt  us— will  it?" 

Emanuel  was  going  to  say  a  small  glass  of 
beer  was  as  much  as  he  ever  imbibed  at  a  sitting, 
but  before  he  could  frame  the  statement 
Caruthers  was  giving  the  order. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  most  agreeable  meal 
when  Emanuel,  following  Mr.  Caruthers'  in 
vitation  and  example,  had  emptied  his  second 
glass  of  beer  and  was  in  the  act  of  putting  down 

[164] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

the  tumbler,  that  a  sudden  sensation  of  drowsi 
ness  assailed  his  senses.  He  bent  back  in  his 
chair,  shaking  his  head  to  clear  it  of  the  mount 
ing  dizziness,  and  started  to  say  he  believed  he 
would  step  to  the  window  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air.  But,  because  he  felt  so  very  comfortable, 
he  changed  his  mind.  His  head  lolled  over  on 
one  side  and  his  lids  closed  down  on  his  heavy 
eyes.  Thereafter  a  blank  ensued. 

When  Emanuel  awoke  there  was  a  flood  of 
sunshine  about  him.  For  a  moment  he  re 
garded  an  unfamiliar  pattern  of  wall  paper, 
the  figures  of  which  added  to  their  unfamil- 
iarity  by  running  together  curiously;  he  was 
in  a  strange  bed,  fully  dressed,  and  as  he  moved 
his  head  on  the  rumpled  pillow  he  realised  that 
he  had  a  splitting  headache  and  that  a  nasty 
dryish  taste  was  in  his  mouth.  He  remem 
bered  then  where  he  was  and  what  had  hap 
pened,  and  sat  up  with  a  jerk,  uttering  a  little 
remorseful  moan. 

The  disordered  room  was  empty.  Caruthers 
was  gone  and  Caruthers'  suit  case  was  gone  too. 
Something  rustled,  and  a  folded  sheet  of  hotel 
note  paper  slid  off  the  bed  cover  and  fell  upon 
the  floor.  With  trembling  fingers  he  reclaimed 
the  paper,  and,  opening  it,  he  read  what  was 
scrawled  on  it  in  pencil: 

"Dear  Old  Scout:    I'm  sorry!   I  didn't  sup 
pose  one  bottle  of  beer  would  put  you  down  and 
out.     When  you  took  the  count  all  of  a  sudden, 
[165] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


I  figured  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  let  you  sleep 
it  off;  so  I  got  you  into  the  bed.  You've  been 
right  there  all  night  and  nobody's  any  the  wiser 
for  it  except  me.  Sorry  I  couldn't  wait  until 
you  woke  up,  but  I  have  to  catch  the  up  train; 
so  I've  paid  my  bill  and  I'm  beating  it  as  soon 
as  I  write  this.  Your  clarinet  is  with  you. 
Think  of  me  sometimes  when  you  tootle  on  it. 
I'll  let  you  hear  from  me  one  of  these  days. 

Yours  in  haste, 

J.  P.  C. 

"P.  S.  If  I  were  you  I'd  stay  off  the  beer 
in  future." 

The  up  train?  Why,  that  left  at  eight- 
forty-five!  Surely  it  could  not  be  that  late! 
Emanuel  got  out  his  old  silver  watch,  a  legacy 
from  a  long-dead  sire,  and  took  one  look  at  its 
two  hands;  and  then  in  a  quiver  of  haste,  with 
no  thought  of  breakfast  or  of  his  present  state 
of  unwashed  untidiness,  with  no  thought  of  any 
thing  except  his  precious  clarinet,  which  he 
tucked  under  his  coat,  he  let  himself  out  of  the 
door,  leaving  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  slipping 
through  the  deserted  hallway  he  hastened  down 
two  flights  of  stairs;  and  taking  a  short  cut 
that  saved  crossing  the  lobby,  where  inquisitive 
eyes  might  behold  him  in  all  his  unkemptness 
and  distress,  he  emerged  from  the  side  door  of 
the  Hotel  Moderne. 

Emanuel  had  proper  cause  to  hurry.  Never 
hi  all  his  years  of  service  for  the  Common- 
[166] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

wealth  Bank  had  he  failed  to  be  on  hand  at 
eight  o'clock  to  sort  out  the  mail;  and  if  his 
watch  was  to  be  believed  here  it  was  a  quarter 
of  nine!  As  he  padded  across  the  street  on 
shaky  legs  a  new  apprehension  that  he  had  come 
away  the  day  before  without  locking  the  com 
bination  of  the  vault  smote  him.  Suppose — 
suppose  something  was  wrong! 

The  street  door  of  the  Commonwealth  stood 
open,  and  though  the  interior  seemed  deserted 
he  realised,  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  that 
someone  had  arrived  before  him.  He  darted 
inside,  dropped  the  clarinet  out  of  sight  in  a 
cuddy  under  his  desk,  and  fairly  threw  himself 
at  the  vault. 

The  outer  door  was  closed  and  locked,  as  it 
should  be.  Nevertheless,  his  hands  shook  so 
that  he  could  hardly  work  the  mechanism. 
Finally,  the  tumblers  obeyed  him,  and  he  swung 
open  the  thick  twin  slabs,  unlocked  the  inner 
door  with  the  key  which  he  carried  along  with 
other  keys  on  his  key  ring — and  then  fetched  a 
sigh  of  relief  that  was  half  a  sob.  Everything 
was  as  it  should  be — cash,  paper  money,  books, 
files  and  securities.  As  he  backed  out  of  the 
vault  the  door  of  the  president's  office  opened 
and  Mr.  Blair  stood  there  in  the  opening,  con 
fronting  him  with  an  accusing  glare. 

"Young  man,"  said  Mr.  Blair,  "you're 
late!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Emanuel.     "I'm  very  sorry, 
sir.     I  must  have  overslept." 
[167.J 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"So  I  judge!"  Mr.  Blair's  accents  were 
ominous.  "So  I  judge,  young  man — but  where?" 

"W-where?"  Emanuel,  burning  with  shame, 
stammered  the  word. 

"Yes,  sir;  that's  what  I  said — where? 
Twenty  minutes  ago  I  telephoned  to  Mrs. 
Morrill's  to  find  out  what  was  keeping  you  from 
your  duties,  and  they  told  me  you  hadn't  been 
in  all  night — that  your  bed  hadn't  been  slept 


in." 


"Yes,  sir;  I  slept  out." 

"I  gathered  as  much."  Mr.  Blair's  long 
white  chin  whiskers  quivered  as  Mr.  Blair's 
condemning  eyes  comprehended  the  shrink 
ing  figure  before  him  from  head  to  foot — the 
rumpled  hair;  the  bloodshot  eyes;  the  wrinkled 
clothes;  the  soiled  collar;  the  skewed  necktie; 
the  fluttering  hands.  "Look  here,  young  man; 
have  you  been  drinking?" 

"No,  sir — yes,  sir;  that  is,  I — I  had  a  little 
beer  last  night,"  owned  Emanuel  miserably. 

"A  little  beer,  huh?" 

Mr.  Blair,  being  popularly  reputed  to  keep 
a  private  quart  flask  in  his  coat  closet  and  at 
intervals  to  refresh  himself  therefrom  behind 
the  cover  of  the  closet  door,  had  a  righteous 
contempt  for  wantons  who  publicly  plied  them 
selves  with  potables,  whether  of  a  malt,  a  spir 
ituous  or  a  vinous  nature. 

"A  little  beer,  huh?"  He  put  tons  of  menace 
into  the  repetition  of  the  words.  "Forever 
and  a  day  traipsing  off  on  vacations  seems  to 
1168] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

breed  bad  habits  in  you,  Moon.  Now,  look 
here!  This  is  the  first  time  this  ever  happened 
— so  far  as  I  know.  I  am  inclined  to  excuse  it 
this  once.  But  see  to  it  that  it  doesn't  happen 
again — ever!" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Emanuel  gratefully.  "It 
won't." 

And  it  did  not. 

So  shaken  was  Emanuel  as  to  his  nerves 
that  three  whole  nights  elapsed  before  he  felt 
equal  to  practicing  on  his  new  clarinet.  After 
that,  though,  in  all  his  spare  moments  at  the 
boarding  house  he  played  assiduously. 

For  the  purposes  of  this  narrative  the  passage 
of  the  ensuing  fortnight  is  of  no  consequence. 
It  passed,  and  that  brings  us  to  a  Friday  after 
noon  in  mid-October.  On  the  Friday  after 
noon  in  question  the  paymaster  of  the  Great 
Western  Crosstie  Company  deposited  in  the 
Commonwealth  Bank,  for  overnight  safeguard 
ing,  the  funds  to  meet  his  semimonthly  pay 
roll  due  to  contractors,  subcontractors,  tow- 
boat  owners  and  extra  labourers,  the  total 
amounting  to  a  goodly  sum. 

Next  morning,  when  Herb  Kivil  opened  the 
vault,  he  took  one  look  and  uttered  one  strangled 
cry.  As  Emanuel  straightened  up  from  the 
mail  he  was  sorting,  and  as  Mr.  Blair  stepped  in 
off  the  street,  out  from  between  the  iron  doors 
staggered  Herb  Kivil,  white  as  a  sheet  and  mak 
ing  funny  sounds  with  his  mouth.  The  vault 
was  empty — stripped  of  cash  on  hand;  stripped 
[169] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


of  the  Great  Western  Company's  big  deposit; 
stripped  of  every  scrap  of  paper  money;  stripped 
of  everything  except  the  bank  books  and  cer 
tain  securities — in  a  word,  stripped  of  between 
eighteen  and  nineteen  thousand  dollars,  specie 
and  currency.  For  the  thief,  whoever  he  might 
be,  there  was  one  thing  to  be  said — he  had  an 
instinct  for  thoroughness  in  his  make-up. 

To  say  that  the  news,  spreading  with  a  most 
miraculous  rapidity,  made  the  town  hum  like 
a  startled  hive,  is  to  state  the  case  in  the  mildest 
of  descriptive  phrases.  On  the  first  alarm,  the 
chief  of  police,  accompanied  by  a  good  half  of 
the  day  force,  came  at  a  dogtrot.  Having 
severely  questioned  the  frightened  negro  janitor, 
and  examined  all  the  doors  and  windows  for 
those  mysterious  things  known  as  clews,  the 
chief  gave  it  as  his  deliberate  opinion  that  the 
robbery  had  been  committed  by  some  one  who 
had  means  of  access  to  the  bank  and  its  vault. 

Inasmuch  as  there  was  about  the  place  no 
evidence  of  forcible  entry,  and  inasmuch  as  the 
face  of  the  vault  was  not  so  much  as  scratched, 
and  inasmuch,  finally,  as  the  combination  was 
in  perfect  order,  the  population  at  large  felt 
constrained  to  agree  that  Chief  Henley  had 
deduced  aright.  He  took  charge  of  the  prem 
ises  for  the  time  being,  Mr.  Blair  having  already 
wired  to  a  St.  Louis  detective  agency  beseech 
ing  the  immediate  presence  and  aid  of  an  expert 
investigator. 

It  came  out  afterward  that  privily  Mr.  Blair 
[170] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

suggested  an  immediate  arrest,  and  gave  to 
Henley  the  name  of  the  person  he  desired  to 
see  taken  into  custody.  But  the  chief,  who 
was  good-hearted — too  good-hearted  for  his 
own  good,  some  people  thought — demurred.  He 
stood  in  a  deep  and  abiding  awe  of  Mr.  Blair. 
But  he  did  not  want  to  make  any  mistakes,  he 
said.  Anyhow,  a  big-city  sleuth  was  due  before 
night.  Would  not  Mr.  Blair  consent  to  wait 
until  the  detective  had  arrived  and  made  his 
investigation?  For  his  part,  he  would  guar 
antee  that  the  individual  under  suspicion  did 
not  get  away.  To  his  postponement  of  the 
decisive  step  Mr.  Blair  finally  agreed. 

On  the  afternoon  train  over  the  Short  Line 
the  expert  appeared,  an  inscrutable  gentleman 
named  Fogarty  with  a  drooping  red  moustache 
and  a  brow  heavily  wrinkled.  This  Mr.  Fo 
garty  first  conferred  briefly  with  Mr.  Blair  and 
with  Chief  Henley.  Then,  accompanied  by 
these  two  and  trailed  by  a  distracted  group  of 
directors  of  the  bank,  he  made  a  careful  survey 
of  the  premises  from  the  cellar  coal  hole  to  the 
roof  scuttle,  uttering  not  a  single  word  the  while. 
His  manner  was  portentous.  Following  this 
he  asked  for  a  word  in  private  with  the  head  of 
the  rifled  institution. 

Leaving  the  others  clustered  in  a  group  out 
side,  he  and  Mr.  Blair  entered  Mr.  Blair's  office. 
Mr.  Fogarty  closed  the  door  and  faced  Mr. 
Blair. 

"This  here,"  said  Mr.  Fogarty,  "was  what 

[mi 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


we  call  an  inside  job.  Somebody  here  in  this 
town — somebody  who  knew  all  there  was  to 
know  about  your  bank — done  it.  Now,  who 
do  you  suspicion?" 

Lowering  his  voice,  Mr.  Blair  told  him,  add 
ing  that  only  a  deep  sense  of  his  obligations  to 
himself  and  to  his  bank  inspired  him  now  to 
detail  certain  significant  circumstances  that 
had  come  to  his  personal  attention  within  the 
past  three  weeks — or,  to  be  exact,  on  a  certain 
Wednesday  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  Sep 
tember. 

In  his  earlier  movements  Mr.  Fogarty  might 
have  been  deliberate;  but  once  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  a  definite  course  of  conduct  he  acted 
promptly.  He  came  out  of  Mr.  Blair's  pres 
ence,  walked  straight  up  to  Emanuel  Moon, 
where  Emanuel  sat  at  his  desk,  and,  putting 
his  hand  on  Emanuel's  shrinking  shoulder, 
uttered  the  words: 

"Young  man,  you  re  wanted!  Put  on  your 
hat." 

Then  Mr.  Fogarty  silently  turned  and  beck 
oned  to  Chief  Henley,  invoking  the  latter's 
official  co-operation  and  assistance. 

Between  the  imported  detective  and  the 
chief  of  police,  Emanuel  Moon,  a  silent,  pitifully 
shrunken  figure,  walked  round  the  corner  to 
the  City  Hall,  a  crowd  following  along  behind, 
and  was  locked  up  in  a  cell  in  the  basement 
calaboose  downstairs.  Lingering  about  the 
hall  after  the  suspect  had  been  taken  inside, 

r.  "a  .1 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

divers  citizens  ventured  the  opinion  that  if  the 
fellow  wasn't  guilty  he  certainly  looked  it. 
Well,  so  far  as  that  goes,  if  a  face  as  pale  as 
putty  and  downcast  eyes  brimming  with  a 
numbed  misery  betokened  guilt  Emanuel  had 
not  a  leg  left  to  stand  on. 

However,  looks  alone  are  not  commonly 
accepted  as  competent  testimony  under  our 
laws,  and  Emanuel  did  not  abide  for  very  long 
as  a  prisoner.  The  Grand  Jury  declined  to 
indict  him  on  such  dubious  proof  as  the  bank 
people  and  Mr.  Fogarty  could  offer  for  its  con 
sideration.  Undoubtedly  the  Grand  Jury  was 
inspired  in  its  refusal  by  the  attitude  the  Com 
monwealth's  attorney  maintained,  an  attitude 
in  which  the  circuit  judge  concurred. 

It  was  known  that  Mr.  Blair  went  to  Com 
monwealth's  Attorney  Flournoy,  practically  de 
manding  that  Emanuel  be  held  for  trial,  and, 
failing  in  that  quarter,  visited  Judge  Priest 
with  the  same  object  in  view.  But  perversely 
the  judge  would  not  agree  with  Mr.  Blair  that 
the  evidence  in  hand  justified  such  a  course; 
would  not  on  any  account  concede  that  Eman 
uel  Moon  was  the  only  person,  really,  who 
might  properly  be  suspected. 

On  that  head  he  was  as  one  with  Prosecutor 
Flournoy.  They  held — these  two— that  pos 
session  of  a  costly  musical  instrument,  regard 
ing  which  the  present  owner  would  admit 
nothing  except  that  it  was  a  gift  from  an  un- 
known  friend,  coupled  with  that  individual's 
[173] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


stubborn  refusal  to  tell  where  he  had  spent  a 
certain  night  and  in  whose  company,  did  not 
constitute  a  fair  presumption  that  he  had  made 
away  with  nearly  nineteen  thousand  dollars. 

"But  look  here,  Judge  Priest,"  hotly  argued 
Mr.  Blair  upon  the  occasion  of  his  call  upon 
His  Honour,  "it  stands  to  reason  Moon  is  the 
thief.  Why,  it  couldn't  have  been  anybody 
else!  And  I  want  the  facts  brought  out." 

"Whut  facts  have  you  got,  Hiram?"  asked 
the  judge. 

"Moon  knew  the  combination  of  the  safe, 
didn't  he?  He  carried  the  keys  for  the  inside 
door  of  the  safe,  didn't  he?  And  a  key  to  the 
door  of  the  building,  too,  didn't  he?" 

"Hiram,"  countered  Judge  Priest,  looking 
Mr.  Blair  straight  in  the  eye,  "ef  you  expect  the 
authorities  to  go  ahead  on  that  kind  of  evidence 
I  reckin  we'd  have  to  lock  you  up  too." 

Mr.  Blair  started  as  though  a  physical  blow 
had  been  aimed  at  his  head. 

"Why — why—  What  do  you  mean  by 
that,  Judge?"  he  demanded,  gripping  the  arms 
of  his  chair  until  his  knuckles  showed  white 
through  the  skin. 

"You  carry  the  keys  of  the  bank  yourself, 
don't  you?  And  you  know  the  combination  of 
the  safe,  don't  you?  And  so  does  Herbie  Kivil." 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate — 

"Hiram,  I  don't  mean  to  insinuate  nothin'. 
Insinuations  don't  make  the  best  of  evidence 
in  court,  though  I  will  admit  they  sometimes 
[174] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

count  for  a  good  deal  outside  of  court.  No, 
Hiram;  I  reckin  you  and  your  detective  friend 
from  St.  Louis  will  have  to  dig  up  somethin* 
besides  your  personal  beliefs  before  you  kin 
expect  the  Grand  Jury  of  this  county  to  lay  a 
charge  aginst  a  man  who's  always  enjoyed  a 
fair  standin'  in  this  here  community.  That's 
all  I've  got  to  say  to  you  on  the  subject." 

Taking  the  hint,  Mr.  Blair,  red-faced  and 
agitated,  took  his  departure.  After  he  was 
gone  Judge  Priest  remained  immersed  in  re 
flection  for  several  hours. 

So  Emanuel  went  free.  But  he  might  al 
most  as  well  have  stayed  in  jail,  for  the  smell  of 
it  seemed  to  cling  to  his  garments — garments 
that  grew  shabbier  as  the  weeks  passed,  for 
naturally  he  did  not  go  back  to  the  bank  and 
just  as  naturally  no  one  cared  to  offer  employ 
ment  to  one  who  had  been  accused  by  his  late 
employer  of  a  crime.  He  fell  behind  with  his 
board  at  Mrs.  Merrill's.  He  walked  the  streets 
with  drooping  shoulders  and  face  averted, 
shunning  people  and  shunned  by  them.  And, 
though  he  kept  to  his  room  in  the  evening,  he 
no  longer  played  on  his  clarinet.  And  the 
looting  of  the  Commonwealth  Bank's  vault 
continued,  as  the  Daily  Evening  News  more  than 
once  remarked,  to  be  "shrouded  in  impenetrable 
mystery." 

One  evening  at  dusk,  as  Judge  Priest  was 
going  home  alone  from  the  courthouse,  on  a 
back  street  he  came  face  to  face  with  Emanuel. 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


The  younger  man  would  have  passed  by  him 
without  speaking,  but  the  old  man  thrust  his 
broad  shape  directly  in  the  little  man's  course. 

"Son,"  he  said,  putting  a  hand  on  the  other's 
arm,  "I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you — 
ez  a  friend.  Jest  you  furgit  all  about  me  bein' 
a  judge.  I  wisht,  ef  you  ain't  got  anythin'  else 
to  do,  you'd  come  up  to  my  house  to-night 
after  you've  had  your  supper.  Will  you,  son?" 

Emanuel,  his  eyes  filling  up,  said  he  would 
come,  and  he  did;  and  in  the  judge's  old  sitting- 
room  they  spent  half  an  hour  together.  Father 
Minor  always  said  that  when  it  came  to  hearing 
confessions  the  only  opposition  he  had  in  town 
came  from  a  nonprofessional,  meaning  by  that 
Judge  Priest.  It  was  one  of  Father  Minor's 
little  jokes. 

"And  now,  Judge  Priest,"  said  Emanuel, 
at  the  latter  end  of  the  talk,  "you  know  every 
thing — why  I  wouldn't  tell  'em  how  I  got  my 
new  clarinet  and  where  I  spent  that  night.  If 
I  had  to  die  for  it  I  wouldn't  bring  suspicion 
on  an  innocent  party.  I  haven't  told  anybody 
but  you — you  are  the  only  one  that  knows." 

"You're  shore  this  here  friend  of  yourn — 
Caruthers — is  an  innocent  party?"  suggested 
the  judge. 

"Why,  Judge,  he's  bound  to  be — he's  just 
naturally  bound  to  be.  If  he'd  been  a  thief 
he'd  have  robbed  the  bank  that  night  when  I 
was  asleep  in  his  room  at  the  hotel.  I  had  the 

keys  to  the  bank  on  me  and  he  knew  it." 

[176] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come  out  and  say  so, 
son?" 

"Because,  as  I  just  told  you,  it  would  be 
bringing  suspicion  on  an  innocent  party.  He 
holds  a  responsible  position  with  that  big  New 
York  firm  I  was  telling  you  about  and  it  might 
have  got  him  into  trouble.  Besides  "-—and 
Emanuel  hung  his  head — "besides,  I  hated  so 
to  have  people  know  that  I  was  ever  under  the 
influence  of  liquor.  I'm  a  church  member, 
Judge,  as  you  know.  I  never  drank — to  excess 
— before  that  night,  and  I  don't  ever  aim  to 
touch  another  drop  as  long  as  I  live.  I'd  al 
most  as  lief  be  called  a  drunkard  as  a  thief. 
They're  calling  me  a  thief — I  don't  aim  to  have 
them  calling  me  the  other  thing  too." 

Judge  Priest  cloaked  an  involuntary  smile 
behind  a  pudgy  hand. 

"Well,  Emanuel,"  he  said,  "jest  to  be  on 
the  safe  side,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  make 
inquiry  amongst  the  merchants  here  as  to 
whether  a  travelling  gent  named  Caruthers  sold 
goods  to  any  of  'em?" 

"No,  Judge;   I  never  thought  of  that." 

"Did  you  look  up  Gatling  &  Moore — I  be 
lieve  that's  the  name — in  Bradstreet's  or  Dun's 
to  see  ef  there  was  sech  a  firm?" 

"Judge,  I  never  thought  of  that  either." 

"Son,"  said  the  old  man,  "it  sorter  looks 

to  me  like  you  ain't  been  doin'  much  thinkin' 

lately."    Then  his  tone  changed  and  became 

warmly  consoling.     "But  I  reckin  ef  I  was  in 

[W] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


the  trouble  you're  in  I  wouldn't  do  much 
thinkin'  neither.  Son,  you  kin  rest  easy  in 
your  mind — I  ain't  a-goin'  to  betray  your  con 
fidences.  But  ef  you  don't  mind  I  aim  to  do  a 
little  inquirin'  round  on  my  own  account. 
This  here  robbery  interests  me  powerfully,  some 
way.  I've  been  frettin'  a  heap  about  it  lately. 

"And — oh,  yes — there's  another  thing  that 
I  was  purty  nigh  furgittin',"  continued  Judge 
Priest.  "I  ain't  purposin'  to  pry  into  your 
personal  affairs — but  tell  me,  son,  how  are  you 
off  fur  ready  money  these  days?" 

"Judge,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  just  about 
out  of  money,"  confessed  Emanuel  desperately. 
"I  owe  Mrs.  Morrill  for  three  weeks'  board  now. 
I  hate  to  keep  putting  her  off — her  being  a 
widow  lady  and  dependent  for  her  living  on 
what  she  takes  in.  I'd  pack  up  and  go  some 
where  else — to  some  other  town — and  try  to 
get  work,  only  I  can't  bear  to  go  away  with  this 
cloud  hanging  over  my  good  name.  It  would 
look  like  I  was  running  away;  and  anyway  I 
guess  the  tale  would  follow  me." 

The  judge  dug  into  his  right-hand  trousers 
pocket.  He  exhumed  a  small  wad  of  bills  and 
began  counting  them  off. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "I  know  you  won't  mind 
my  makin'  you  a  temporary  loan  to  help  you 
along  till  things  git  brighter  with  you.  By 
the  way,  how  would  you  like  to  go  to  work  in 
the  circuit  clerk's  office?" 

"Me,  Judge!  Me?"  Fresh-kindled  hope 
[178] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

blazed  an  instant  in  Emanuel  Moon's  voice; 
then  the  spark  died. 

"I  reckon  nobody  would  hire  me,"  he  finished 
despondently. 

'Don't  you  be  so  shore.  'Lishy  Milam  come 
to  me  only  yistiddy  sayin'  he  needed  a  reliable 
and  experienced  man  to  help  him  with  his  books, 
and  askin'  me  ef  I  could  suggest  anybody. 
He  ain't  had  a  capable  deputy  sense  little  Clint 
Coombs  died  on  him.  I  sort  of  figger  that  ef  he 
gave  you  a  job  on  my  say-so  it'd  go  a  mighty 
long  way  toward  convincin'  this  town  that  we 
both  regarded  you  ez  an  honest  citizen.  I'll 
speak  to  'Lishy  Milam  the  very  first  thing  in 
the  mornin' — ef  you're  agreeable  to  the  notion." 

"Judge,"  exclaimed  Emanuel,  up  on  his  feet, 
"I  can't  thank  you — I  can't  tell  you  what  this 
means " 

"Son,  don't  try,"  bade  the  old  judge.  "Any 
how,  that  ain't  whut  I  want  to  hear  frum  you 
now.  Set  down  there  agin  and  tell  me  all  you 
kin  remember  about  this  here  friend  of  yourn — 
Caruthers;  where  you  met  up  with  him  and 
whut  he  said  and  how  he  said  it,  and  the  way  he 
looked  and  walked  and  talked.  And  how  much 
beer  you  drunk  up  that  night  and  how  much  he 
drunk  up,  and  how  you  felt  when  you  woke 
up,  and  whut  Hiram  Blair  said  to, you  when 
you  showed  up  at  the  bank — the  whole  thing 
all  over  agin  from  start  to  finish.  I'm  inter 
ested  in  this  here  Mr.  Caruthers.  It  strikes  me 

he  must  'a'  been  a  mighty  likely  feller." 

[179] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


When  Emanuel  Moon  walked  out  of  Judge 
Priest's  front  door  that  night  he  was  pumped 
dry.  Also,  for  the  first  time  in  weeks,  he  walked 
with  head  erect  and  gaze  straightforward. 

In  the  morning,  true  to  his  promise,  Judge 
Priest  made  recommendations  to  Circuit  Clerk 
Milam.  This  done,  he  left  the  courthouse  and, 
going  down  Legal  Row,  dropped  in  at  the  law 
office  of  Fairleigh  &  Fairleigh,  to  find  young 
Jere  Fairleigh,  junior  member  of  the  firm, 
sitting  by  the  grate  fire  in  the  front  room. 

"Jere,"  asked  Judge  Priest,  directly  the 
young  man  had  made  him  welcome,  "whutever 
become  of  them  three  post-office  robbers  that 
hired  you  to  defend  'em — still  over  in  the 
Marshallville  jail,  ain't  they?" 

"Two  of  them  are,"  said  young  Fairleigh. 
"The  one  they  call  the  Waco  Baby  got  out  on 
bail  and  skipped.  But  the  other  two — Frisco 
Slim  and  Montreal  Red — are  in  jail  over  there 
awaiting  trial  at  the  next  term  of  United  States 
Court." 

Judge  Priest  smiled  softly. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "it  certainly  looks 
to  me  like  you're  climbin'  mighty  fast  in  your 
chosen  profession.  All  your  clients  'pear  to 
have  prominent  cities  named  after  *ejn.  Tell 
me,"  he  went  on,  "  whut  kind  of  persons  are  the 
two  that  are  still  lingerin'  in  Marshallville?" 

"Well,"  said  the  young  lawyer,  "there's  a 
world  of  difference  between  'em.  Frisco  is  the 
glum,  morose  kind;  but  Montreal  Red — his 
[180] 


THE      LIFE     OF      AN     ANT 

real  name  is  Mooney,  he  tells  me,  though  he's 
got  half  a  dozen  other  names — he's  certainly 
a  wise  individual.  Just  associating  with  him 
in  my  capacity  as  his  counsel  has  been  a  liberal 
education  to  me  in  the  ways  of  the  underworld. 
I  firmly  believe  he  knows  every  professional 
crook  in  the  country." 

"Aha!  I  see,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "I  figger 
Mister  Montreal  is  the  party  I  want  to  meet. 
I'm  thinkin'  of  runnin'  down  to  Marshallville 
on  business  right  after  dinner  to-day.  I  reckin 
you  wouldn't  mind — in  strict  confidence— 
givin'  me  a  little  note  of  introduction  to  your 
client,  tellin'  him  I  seek  his  advice  on  a  private 
matter,  and  sayin'  that  I  kin  be  trusted?" 

"I'll  be  mighty  glad  to,"  said  Fairleigh, 
Junior,  reaching  across  his  desk  for  pen  and 
paper.  "I'll  write  it  right  now.  Turning 
detective,  Judge?" 

"Well,  son,"  conceded  Judge  Priest,  "you 
mout  call  it  that  and  not  make  sech  an  awful 
big  mistake." 

"Sort  of  a  Sherlock  Holmes,  eh?" 

The  judge  made  a  gesture  of  modest  dis 
claimer. 

"No;  I  reckin  Sherlock  would  be  out  of  my 
class.  By  all  accounts  Sherlock  knowed  purty 
nigh  ever 'thing  wuth  knowin'.  If  he'd  struck 
two  different  trails,  both  seemin'ly  p'intin'  in 
the  same  direction,  he'd  know  right  off  which 
one  of  'em  to  take.  That's  where  he'd  be  one 
pawpaw  above  my  tallest  persimmon.  Some- 

[181] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


times  I  git  to  thinkin'  I'm  a  poor  purblind  old 
idiot  that  can't  see  a  thing  when  it's  shoved 
right  up  under  my  nose.  No;  I  ain't  aspirin' 
none  to  qualify  ez  a  Sherlock.  I'm  only  en- 
deavourin'  to  walk  ez  an  humble  disciple  in  the 
hallowed  footsteps  of  Old  Cap  Collier." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Old  Cap  Collier?" 
demanded  Fairleigh,  astonished.  "I  thought 
I  was  the  only  grown  man  in  town  that  still 
read  nickel  libraries — on  the  sly." 

"Boy,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "you  and  me  have 
got  a  secret  bond  between  us.  Wasn't  that 
there  last  one  that  come  out  a  jim-dandy? — 
the  one  called  Old  Cap  Collier  and  the  Great 
Diamond  Robbery. 

"It  was  so,"  stated  Fairleigh.  "I  read  it 
last  night  in  bed." 

Three  o'clock  of  that  same  day  disclosed 
Judge  Priest  perched  on  the  side  of  a  bunk  in  a 
cell  in  the  Marshall ville  jail,  close  up  alongside 
a  blocky  person  of  unkempt  appearance  whom 
we,  for  convenience,  may  call  Montreal  Red, 
more  especially  as  this  happens  to  be  the  title 
to  which  he  commonly  answered  within  the  fra 
ternity  of  which  he  was  a  distinguished  member. 

They  made  a  picture  sitting  there  together 
— the  old  man,  nursing  his  soft  black  hat  be 
tween  his  hands,  with  the  half  light  bringing 
out  in  relief  his  bald  round  skull,  his  chubby 
pink  face  and  his  tuft  of  white  beard;  the  cap- 
tive  yeggman  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  no  collar 
[182] 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

on  and  no  shoes  on,  holding  Mr.  Fairleigh's 
note  in  his  hand  and,  with  the  look  upon  his 
face  of  one  who  feels  a  just  pride  in  his  profes 
sional  knowledge,  hearkening  while  the  Judge 
minutely  described  for  him  a  certain  individual. 
Before  the  Judge  was  done,  Montreal  Red  in 
terrupted  him. 

"Sufficiency,  bo,"  he  said  lightly;  "you've 
said  enough.  I  know  the  gun  you're  talkin' 
about  without  you  goin'  any  farther — it's 
Shang  Conklin,  the  Solitary  Kid." 

"But  this  here  gentleman  went  by  the  name 
of  Caruthers!"  demurred  the  Judge. 

"Wot  else  did  you  figure  he'd  be  doin'?" 
countered  Montreal  Red.  "He  might  'a'  called 
himself  Crowley,  or  Lord  Copeleigh,  or  half  a 
dozen  other  things.  He  might  'a'  called  him 
self  the  King  of  Bavaria — yes,  and  got  away 
with  it,  too,  because  he's  there  with  the  swell 
front  and  the  education.  The  Solitary  Kid's 
got  a  different  monniker  for  every  day  in  the 
week  and  two  for  Sundays.  It  couldn't  be 
nobody  else  but  him;  you've  called  the  turn  on 
him  same  as  if  you'd  mugged  him  for  the  Gal 
lery." 

"You  know  him  personally,  then?"  asked 
Judge  Priest. 

"Who  don't  know  him?"  said  Montreal 
Red.  "Everybody  that  knows  anybody  knows 
Solitary.  And  I'll  tell  you  why!  You  take 
'most  any  ordinary  gun  and  he's  got  just  one 
regular  line — he's  a  stick-up,  or  he's  a  moll 
[183] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


buzzer,  or  a  peterman,  or  a  con  man;  or  he 
belongs  to  the  hard-boiled  people,  the  same  as 
me.  But  Shang  he  doubles  in  brass;  it's  B. 
and  O.  for  him.  Bein'  there  with  the  front, 
he's  worked  the  wire;  and  before  that  he  worked 
the  bat.  Knowin'  all  there  is  to  know  about  the 
pasteboard  papes,  he'd  done  deep-sea  fishin* 
in  his  time — playin'  for  rich  guys  on  the  big 
liners,  you  know. 

"And  when  it  comes  to  openin'  boxes — bo, 
since  old  Jimmy  Hope  quit  the  game  and 
sneezed  in,  I  guess  Shang  Conklin's  the  wisest 
boxman  that  ever  unbuttoned  a  combination 
crib  with  his  bare  hands.  He's  sure  the  real 
McCoy  there — not  no  common  yegg,  you  under 
stand,  with  a  steel  drill  and  a  gat  in  his  kicks 
and  a  rubber  bottle  full  of  soup  tied  under  his 
coat;  but  doin'  the  real  fancy  stuff,  with  nothin' 
to  help  him  but  the  old  ten  fingers  and  the 
educated  ear.  And  he  never  works  with  a  mob 
neither.  Any  time  you  make  Shang  he'll  be 
playin'  the  lone  hand — providin'  his  own  nut 
and  goin'  south  with  all  the  clean-up.  No 
splittin'  with  anybody  for  Shang — it's  against 
his  business  principles.  That's  why  he's  labelled 
the  Solitary  Kid." 

Most  of  this  was  as  pure  Greek  to  Judge 
Priest,  who,  I  may  say,  knew  no  Greek,  pure 
or  otherwise.  Suddenly  aware  of  the  bewilder 
ment  revealed  in  the  countenance  of  his  inter 
viewer,  Montreal  Red  checked  up  and  took  a 
new  track. 

[184] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

"Say,  bo,  you  ain't  makin'  me,  are  you? 
Well,  then,  maybe  I'd  better  spiel  it  out  slow. 
Know  wot  a  petennan  is?" 

The  judge  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  you  know  wot  a  box  is,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  skeered  that  I  don't,  though  I  believe 
I'm  beginnin'  to  git  a  faint  idea,"  said  Judge 
Priest.- 

As  though  deploring  such  ignorance  Montreal 
Red  shook  his  flame-coloured  head. 

"I'll  frame  it  for  you  different — in  sucker 
language,"  he  said. 

And  accordingly  he  did,  most  painstak 
ingly. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  at  the  end  of  five  minutes 
of  laborious  translation,  "do  you  get  me?" 

"I  git  you,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "And  I'm 
mighty  much  obliged.  Now,  then,  ef  it  ain't 
too  much  trouble,  I'd  like  to  git  in  touch 
with  this  here  Mister  Conklin,  et  cetery.  Do 
you,  by  any  chance,  know  his  present  where 
abouts?" 

Before  replying  to  this  the  Montreal  Red 
communed  with  himself  for  a  brief  space. 

"Old-timer,"  he  said  finally,  "if  I  thought 
you  was  playin'  in  with  the  dicks  I'd  see  you  in 
Belgium  before  I  tipped  you  off  to  anything. 
But  this  here  mouthpiece  of  mine" — he  in 
dicated  the  note  from  young  Mr.  Fairleigh— 
"says  you're  on  the  level.  I  judge  he  wouldn't 
take  my  good  fall-money  and  then  cross  me 
this  way.  I  take  it  you  ain't  tryin'  to  slip  one 
[185] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


over  on  Shang?     All  right,  then;    I'll  tell  you 
where  he  is — he's  in  Atlanta,  Georgia." 

"And  whut  is  his  address  there?"  pursued 
Judge  Priest. 

"The  Federal  prison — that's  all,"  said  Mon 
treal  Red.  He  smiled  softly.  "If  I  don't 
beat  this  little  case  of  mine  I'm  liable  to  meet 
him  down  there  along  toward  spring,  or  maybe 
even  sooner.  The  bulls  nailed  him  at  Chat 
tanooga,  Tennessee,  about  a  month  ago  for  a 
little  national-bank  job,  and  right  quick  he 
taken  a  plea  and  got  off  with  a  short  bit  in 
Uncle  Sammy's  big  house.  I  was  readin'  about 
it  in  the  papers.  You  wouldn't  have  no  trouble 
findin'  him  at  Atlanta — he'll  be  in  to  callers  for 
the  next  five  years." 

"Bein'  an  amateur  Old  Cap  Collier  certainly 
calls  fur  a  lot  of  travellin'  round,"  murmured 
Judge  Priest,  half  to  himself,  and  he  sighed  a 
small  sigh  of  resignation  as  he  arose. 

"Wot's  that?  I  don't  make  you?"  asked 
Montreal  Red. 

"  Nothin ',"  said  Judge  Priest;  "nothin' 
a-tall.  I  was  jest  thinkin'  out  loud;  it's  a  sort 
of  failin'  of  mine  ez  I  git  older.  You  said, 
didn't  you,  that  these  here  sleepin'  potions 
which  you  was  mentionin'  a  minute  ago  are 
mostly  administered  in  beer?" 

"Mostly  in  beer,"  said  Montreal  Red.  "The 
little  old  knock-out  seems  to  work  best  in  the 
lather  stuff.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  does. 

It's  like  this:  You  take  the  beer " 

[186] 


THE      LIFE      OF     AN     ANT 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  figgerin'  on  usin'  it  myself," 
explained  Judge  Priest  hastily.  "Much  obliged 
to  you  all  the  same,  young  man." 

A  night  in  a  sleeping  car  brought  Judge 
Priest  to  Atlanta.  A  ride  in  a  trolley  car 
brought  him  to  the  warden's  office  of  a  large 
reformatory  institution  beyond  the  suburbs 
of  that  progressive  city.  A  ten-minute  chat 
with  the  warden  and  the  display  of  divers 
credentials  brought  him  the  privilege  of  an 
interview,  in  private,  with  a  person  who,  hav 
ing  so  many  names  to  pick  from,  was  yet  at 
this  time  designated  by  a  simple  number. 
Even  in  convict  garb,  which  is  cut  on  chastely 
plain  lines  and  which  rarely  fits  perfectly  the 
form  of  its  wearer,  this  gentleman  continued 
somehow  to  bespeak  the  accomplished  metro 
politan  in  his  physical  outlines  and  in  his  de 
meanour  as  well,  maintaining  himself,  as  you 
might  say,  jauntily. 

In  the  first  few  moments  of  his  meeting  with 
Judge  Priest  there  was  about  him  a  bearing  of 
reserve — almost  of  outright  suspicion.  But 
half  a  dozen  explanatory  sentences  from  the 
judge  served  speedily  to  establish  an  atmosphere 
of  mutual  understanding.  I  believe  I  stated 
earlier  hi  my  tale  that  Judge  Priest  had  a  little 
knack  for  winning  people's  confidences.  Per 
haps  I  should  also  explain  that  at  a  suitable 
time  in  the  introductory  stages  of  the  conversa 
tion  he  produced  a  line  in  the  characteristic 
1 187  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


handwriting  of  Mr.  Montreal  Red.  Being 
thereby  still  further  enlightened  as  to  the  dis 
interestedness  of  the  venerable  stranger's  mo 
tives,  the  Solitary  Kid  proved  frankness  itself. 
Preliminarily,  though,  he  listened  intently  while 
Judge  Priest  recited  in  full  a  story  that  had 
mainly  to  do  with  the  existing  plight  of  Eman- 
uel  Moon. 

"Now  then,  suh,"  said  Judge  Priest  at  the 
conclusion  of  his  narrative,  "I've  laid  all  the 
cyards  that  I  hold  on  the  table  right  in  front  of 
you.  Ef  I'm  correct  in  my  guess  that  you're 
the  party  of  the  second  part  in  this  here  trans 
action  I  don't  need  to  go  on,  because  you  know 
a  sight  more  about  the  rest  of  it  than  whut  I 
do.  The  way  I  figger  it,  a  decent,  honest  little 
man  is  in  serious  trouble,  mainly  on  your  ac 
count.  Ef  you're  so  minded  I  calculate  that 
you  kin  help  him  without  hurtin'  yourself  any. 
Now  then,  presumin'  sech  to  be  the  case,  is 
there  anythin'  you'd  like  to  say  to  me — ez  his 
friend?" 

Conklin,  alias  Caruthers,  alias  Crowley,  and 
so  on,  put  a  question  of  his  own  now: 

"You  say  the  president  of  that  bank  is  the 
one  that  tried  to  fasten  this  job  on  Moon,  eh? 
Well,  then,  before  we  go  any  further,  suppose 
you  tell  me  what  that  president  looks  like?" 

Judge  Priest  sketched  a  quick  word  picture 
of  Mr.  Hiram  Blair — accurate  and  fair,  there 
fore  not  particularly  complimentary. 

"That's  enough,"  said  the  convict  grimly; 

[188] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

" that'll  do.  Why,  the  long-whiskered  old  dog! 
Now  then,  Judge — you  said  you  were  a  judge, 
didn't  you? — I'm  going  to  spill  a  funny  yarn 
for  you.  Never  mind  what  my  reasons  for 
coming  through  are.  Maybe  I  want  to  get 
even  with  somebody  that  handed  me  a  large 
disappointment.  Maybe  I  don't  want  to  see 
that  little  Moon  suffer  for  something  he  didn't 
do.  Figure  it  out  for  yourself  afterward,  but 
first  listen  to  me." 

"I'm  listenin',  son,"  said  Judge  Priest. 

"Good!"  said  Conklin,  lowering  his  voice 
cautiously,  though  he  knew  already  they  were 
alone  in  the  warden's  room. 

"Up  to  a  certain  point  you've  got  the  thing 
figured  out  just,  as  it  came  off.  That  day  on 
the  train  going  into  Louisville  I  started  to  take 
the  little  man  at  cards.  I  was  going  to  deal 
him  the  big  mitt  and  then  clean  him  for  what 
he  had;  but  when  he  told  me  he  worked  in  a 
bank — a  nice,  fat  little  country  bank — I  switched 
the  play,  of  course.  I  saw  thousands  of  dollars 
where  I'd  seen  lunch  money  before.  Inside 
of  an  hour  I  knew  everything  there  was  to  know 
about  that  bank — what  he  knew  and  what  I 
could  figure  from  what  he  told  me.  All  I  had 
to  do  was  to  turn  the  spigot  once  in  a  while 
and  let  him  run  on.  And  then,  when  he  began 
to  spill  his  cravings  for  a  new  clarinet,  I  almost 
laughed  in  his  face.  The  whole  thing  looked 
like  a  pipe. 

"The  dope  was  working  lovely  when  I  hit 

[189] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


that  town  of  yours  two  weeks  later.  At  the 
right  minute  I  flashed  the  clarinet  on  him  and 
made  him  forget  to  throw  the  combination  of 
the  vault.  So  far,  so  good.  Then,  when  I  got 
him  where  I  wanted  him — over  in  my  room — 
I  slipped  the  drops  into  his  beer;  not  enough 
to  hurt  him  but  enough  to  start  him  pounding 
his  ear  right  away.  That  was  easy  too — so  easy 
I  almost  hated  to  do  it. 

"Then  I  waited  until  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  him  lying  there  all  the  time  on  my 
bed,  dead  to  the  world.  So  I  took  his  keys  off 
him  and  dropped  across  the  street  without 
being  seen  by  anybody — the  main  street  of 
your  town  is  nice  and  quiet  after  midnight— 
I'll  say  that  much  for  it  anyway — and  walked 
into  the  bank  the  same  as  if  I  owned  it — in  fact, 
I  did  own  it — and  made  myself  at  home.  I 
opened  up  the  vault  and  went  through  it,  with 
a  pocket  flash  to  furnish  light;  and  then  after 
a  little  I  locked  her  up  again,  good  and  tight, 
leaving  everything  just  like  I'd  found  it,  and 
went  back  to  the  hotel  and  put  the  keys  in  the 
little  man's  pocket,  and  laid  down  alongside  of 
him  and  took  a  nap  myself.  D'ye  see  my 
drift?" 

"I  reckin  I  don't  altogether  understand — 
yit,"  said  Judge  Priest. 

"You  naturally  wouldn't,"  said  Conklin 
with  the  air  of  a  teacher  instructing  an  at 
tentive  but  very  ignorant  pupil.  "Here's 
what  happened:  When  I  took  a  good  look  at 
[190] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN      ANT 

the  inside  door  of  that  vault  and  tried  the 
tumblers  of  the  outside  door  I  knew  I  could 
open  her  any  time  I  wanted  to — in  five  minutes 
or  less.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  need  the  keys  any 
more,  seeing  as  I  could  make  impressions  of 
'em  in  wax,  which  I  did  as  soon  as  I  got  back 
inside  of  my  room  at  the  hotel.  So  I  was 
sure  of  having  duplicates  whenever  I  needed 


'em." 


"I'm  feared  that  I'm  still  in  the  dark,"  said 
Judge  Priest.  "You  see  it's  only  here  right 
recently  that  I  took  up  your  callin'  in  life — ez 
a  study." 

"Well,  figure  it  out  for  yourself ,"  said  Conk- 
lin.  "If  I  made  my  clean-up  and  my  getaway 
that  night  it  was  a  cinch  that  they'd  connect 
up  Moon  with  his  strange  friend  from  New 
York;  even  a  hick  bull  would  be  wise  enough 
to  do  that.  And  inside  of  twenty-four  hours 
they'd  be  combing  the  country  for  a  gun  answer 
ing  to  my  general  plans  and  specifications.  At 
the  beginning  I  was  willing  to  take  that  chance; 
but  after  I  had  a  look  at  that  combination  I 
switched  my  play.  Besides,  there  wasn't  enough 
coin  in  the  box  that  night  to  suit  me.  I  always 
play  for  the  big  dough  when  I  can,  and  I  re 
membered  what  the  little  man  told  me  about 
that  lumber  company — you  know  the  one  I 
mean:  that  big  crosstie  concern — depositing 
its  pay  roll  every  other  Friday  night.  So  why 
wouldn't  I  hold  off?" 

"I  begin  to  see,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "You're 
[191] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


makin'  me  see  a  number  of  things  that've  been 
pesterin'  me  fur  three-four  days  now." 

"Wait  till  you  get  the  final  kick,"  promised 
the  convict.  "That'll  open  your  eyes  some,  I 
guess.  Well,  I  skinned  out  next  morning  and 
I  went  elsewhere — never  mind  where,  but  it 
wasn't  far  away.  Then  on  the  night  of  the 
fifteenth — the  third  Friday  in  the  month — I 
came  back  again,  travelling  incog.,  as  they 
say  on  the  other  side  of  the  duck  pond;  and 
about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  paid  another 
call  to  your  little  old  Commonwealth  Bank  and 
opened  up  the  vault — outside  door  and  inside 
door — in  four  minutes  by  my  watch,  without 
putting  a  mark  on  her.  That's  my  specialty- 
nice,  clean  jobs,  without  damaging  the  box  or 
making  any  litter  for  the  janitor  to  sweep  up 
in  the  morning.  But  I  didn't  clean  her  out 
that  time  either." 

"Ahem!"  said  Judge  Priest  doubtfully. 
"You  didn't?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  expect  you  to  believe  that  right 
off,"  stated  Mr.  Conklin,  prolonging  his  climax. 
"The  reason  I  didn't  clean  her  out  then  was 
because  she  was  already  cleaned  out;  some 
body  had  beat  me  to  it  and  got  away  with 
everything  worth  having  in  that  little  old  box. 
It  was  considerable  of  a  disappointment  to  me 
— and  a  shock  too." 

"It  shorely  must've  been,"  agreed  the  judge, 
almost  sympathetically.  "  Mout  I  ask  ef  you've 
got  any  gineral  notion  who  it  was  that — that 

,[192] 


THE      LIFE      OF      AN      ANT 

deprived  you  of  the  fruits  of  your  industry  and 
your  patience?" 

"I  don't  have  to  have  any  general  notion," 
quoth  Conklin  et  at.,  with  bitterness  creeping 
into  his  voice.  "I  know  who  it  was — that  is, 
I'm  practically  certain  I  know  who  it  was. 
Because,  while  I  was  across  the  street  in  a 
doorway  about  half  past  one,  waiting  to  make 
sure  the  neighbourhood  was  clear,  I  saw  the 
gink  I  suspect  come  out  of  the  bank  and  lock 
the  door  behind  him,  and  go  off  up  the  street. 

"I  thought  at  the  time  it  was  funny — any 
body  being  in  that  bank  at  that  hour  of  the 
night;  but  mostly  I  was  glad  that  I 'hadn't 
walked  in  on  him  while  he  was  there.  So  I 
just  laid  low  and  let  him  get  away  with  the 
entire  proceeds — which  was  my  mistake.  I 
guess  under  the  circumstances  he'd  have  been 
glad  enough  to  divide  up  with  me.  I  might 
even  have  induced  him  to  hand  over  the  whole 
bunch  to  me — though,  as  a  rule,  when  it  can 
be  avoided  I  don't  believe  in  any  strong-arm 
stuff.  But,  you  see,  I  didn't  know;then  what 
I  found  out  about  half  an  hour  later.  So  I 
just  stood  still  where  I  was,  like  a  boob,  and 
let  him  fade  away  out  of  my  life.  Yep,  Judge, 
I'm  reasonably  sure  I  saw  the  party  that  copped 
the  big  roll  that  night.  And  I  presume  I'm  the 
only  person  alive  that  did  see  him  copping  it." 

"Would  you  mind  describin'  him — ez  nearly 
ez  you  kin?"  asked  Judge  Priest;  he  seemed 
to  have  accepted  the  story  as  a  truthful  recital. 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"I  don't  need  to,"  answered  the  Solitary 
Kid.  "You  did  that  yourself  just  a  little  bit 
ago.  If  you're  going  back  home  any  time  soon 
I  suggest  that  you  ask  the  old  pappy-guy  with 
the  long  white  whiskers  what  he  was  doing 
coming  out  of  his  own  bank  at  half  past  one 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  October  the  sixteenth, 
with  a  long  overcoat  on,  and  his  hat  pulled 
down  over  his  eyes,  and  a  heavy  sackful  of 
dough  hid  under  his  coat.  I  didn't  exactly 
see  the  sack,  but  he  had  it,  all  right — I'll  gamble 
on  that.  You  needn't  tell  him  where  you  got 
your  information,  but  just  ask  him." 

"Son,"  averred  Judge  Priest,  "I  shorely 
will  do  that  very  thing;  in  fact,  I  came  mighty 
nigh  practically  doin'  so  several  weeks  ago 
when  I  didn't  know  nigh  ez  much  ez  I  do  now 
—thanks  to  you  and  much  obliged." 

But  Judge  Priest  was  spared  the  trouble — 
for  the  time  being,  at  least.  What  transpired 
later  in  a  legal  way  in  his  courtroom  has  noth 
ing  whatever  to  do  with  this  narration.  It  is 
true  that  he  left  Atlanta  without  loss  of  time, 
heading  homeward  as  straight  and  as  speedily 
as  the  steam  cars  could  bear  him. 

Even  so,  he  arrived  too  late  to  carry  out  his 
promise  to  the  Solitary  Kid.  For  that  very 
day,  while  he  was  on  his  way  back,  in  a  city 
several  hundred  miles  distant — in  the  city  of 
Chicago,  to  be  precise — the  police  saw  fit  to 
raid  an  establishment  called  vulgarly  a  bucket 


THE     LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

shop;  and  finding  among  the  papers  and  books, 
which  they  coincidentally  seized,  entries  tend 
ing  to  show  that  our  Mr.  Hiram  Blair  had,  dur 
ing  the  preceding  months,  gone  short  on  wheat 
to  a  disastrous  extent,  the  police  inconsiderately 
betrayed  those  records  of  a  prolonged  and  un 
fortunate  speculation  to  one  of  the  Chicago 
afternoon  papers,  which  in  turn  wired  its  local 
correspondent  down  our  way  to  call  upon  the 
gentleman  and  ask  him  pointblank  how  about 
it. 

But  the  correspondent,  who  happened  also 
to  be  the  city  staff  of  the  Daily  Evening  News, 
a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Rawlings,  was 
unsuccessful  in  his  attempts  to  see  Mr.  Blair, 
either  at  his  place  of  business  in  the  bank  or^at 
his  residence.  From  what  he  was  able  to 
glean,  the  reporter  divined  that  Mr.  Blair  had 
gone  out  of  town  suddenly.  Putting  two  and 
two  together  the  young  man  promptly  reached 
the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Blair  might  possibly 
have  had  also  some  word  from  Chicago.  Devel 
opments,  rapidly  ensuing,  proved  the  youth 
correct  in  his  hypothesis. 

Two  days  later  Mr.  Blair  was  halted  by  a 
person  in  civilian  garb,  but  wearing  a  badge 
of  authority  under  his  coat,  as  Mr.  Blair  was 
about  to  cross  the  boundary  line  near  Buffalo 
into  the  adjacent  Dominion  of  Canada.  Mr. 
Blair  insisted  at  first  that  it  was  not  him.  In 
truth  it  did  not  look  like  him.  Somewhere  en 
route  he  had  lost  his  distinguished  chin  whiskers 
[195] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


and  his  commanding  manner,  acquiring  in  lieu 
of  these  a  name  which  did  not  in  the  least  re 
semble  Hiram  Blair. 

Nevertheless,  being  peremptorily,  forcibly 
and  over  his  protests  detained — in  fact,  locked 
up — he  was  presently  constrained  to  make  a 
complete  statement,  amounting  to  a  confession. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Blair  went  so  far  in  his  disclosures 
that  the  Daily  Evening  News,  in  an  extra  issued 
at  high  noon,  carried  across  its  front  page,  in 
box-car  letters,  a  headline  reading:  Fugitive, 
in  Durance  Vile,  Tells  All! 

Old  Judge  Priest  was  passing  Mrs.  Teenie 
Merrill's  boarding  house  one  night  on  his  way 
home  from  Soule's  drug  store,  where  he  had 
spent  the  evening  in  the  congenial  company 
of  Mr.  Soule,  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  and 
Squire  Roundtree.  This  was  perhaps  a  week 
after  his  return  from  a  flying  trip  to  Atlanta, 
Georgia,  the  results  of  which,  as  the  saying 
goes,  still  were  locked  within  his  breast. 

As  he  came  opposite  Mrs.  Merrill's  front  gate 
a  blast  of  harmonious  sound,  floating  out  into 
the  night,  saluted  his  ears.  He  looked  upward. 
Behind  a  front  window  on  the  top  floor,  with 
his  upper  lip  overlapping  the  mouthpiece  of  a 
handsome  clarinet  and  his  fingers  flitting  upon 
the  polished  shaft  of  the  instrument,  sat  little 
Emanuel  Moon,  now,  by  virtue  of  appoint 
ment,  Deputy  Circuit  Clerk  Emanuel  Moon, 
playing  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  with  the 
fervour  inspired  of  a  happy  heart,  a  rehabil- 
[196] 


THE      LIFE     OF     AN     ANT 

itated  reputation,  a  lucrative  and  honourable 
employment  in  the  public  service,  and  a  newly 
acquired  mastery  of  the  melodic  intricacies  of 
the  air  in  question — four  things  calculated,  you 
will  allow,  to  make  anyone  blithe  of  the  spirit. 

The  old  judge  halted  and  smiled  up  at  the 
window.  Then,  as  he  moved  onward,  he  ut 
tered  the  very  word — a  small  coincidence,  this 
—which  I  chose  for  the  opening  text  of  this 
chapter  out  of  the  life  and  the  times  of  our 
town. 

"Poor  little  ant!"  said  Judge  Priest  to  him 
self;  and  then,  as  an  afterthought:  "But  a 
dag-gone  clever  little  feller!" 


[197] 


V 

SERGEANT  JIMMY  BAGBY'S 
FEET 


SERGEANT  JIMMY  BAGBY  sat  on  the 
front  porch  of  the  First  Presbyterian  par 
sonage  with  an  arched  framing  of  green 
vines  above  his  head.     His  broad  form 
reposed  in  a  yet  broader  porch  chair — his  bare 
feet  in  a  foot-tub  of  cold  water. 

The  sergeant  wore  his  reunion  regalia,  con 
sisting,  in  the  main,  of  an  ancient  fatigue  jacket 
with  an  absurdly  high  collar  and  an  even  more 
absurdly  short  and  peaked  tail.  About  his  gen 
erous  middle  was  girthed  a  venerable  leather 
belt  that  snaffled  at  the  front  with  a  broad 
buckle  of  age-darkened  brass  and  supported  an 
old  cartridge  box,  which  perched  jauntily  upon  a 
fold  of  the  wearer's  plump  hip  like  a  birdbox  on 
a  crotch.  Badges  of  resplendent  new  satin, 
striped  in  alternate  bars  of  red  and  white,  flowed 
down  over  his  foreshortened  bosom,  partly 
obscuring  the  scraps  of  rotted  and  faded  braid 
and  the  big  round  ball  buttons  of  dulled  brass, 
which  adhered  intermittently  to  the  decayed 
[198] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

front  of  his  uniform  coat.  Against  a  veranda 
post  leaned  the  sergeant's  rusted  rifle,  the  same 
he  had  carried  to  the  war  and  through  the  war 
and  home  again  after  the  war,  and  now  reserved 
for  occasions  of  high  state,  such  as  the  present  one. 
The  sergeant's  trousers  were  turned  high  up 
on  his  shanks;  his  shoes  reposed  side  by  side 
alongside  him  on  the  floor,  each  with  a  white 
yarn  sock  crammed  into  and  overflowing  it. 
They  were  new  shoes,  but  excessively  dusty  and 
seamed  with  young  wrinkles;  and  they  bore  that 
look  of  total  disrepute  which  anything  new  in 
leather  always  bears  after  its  first  wearing.  With 
his  elbows  on  his  thighs  and  his  hands  clasped 
loosely  between  his  knees,  Sergeant  Bagby 
bent  forward,  looking  first  up  the  wide  street 
and  then  down  it.  Looking  this  way  he  saw 
four  old  men,  three  of  them  dressed  in  grey 
and  one  in  black,  straggle  limpingly  across 
the  road;  and  one  of  them  carried  at  a  droopy 
angle  a  flag  upon  which  were  white-scrolled 
letters  to  tell  the  world  that  here  was  Lyon's 
Battery,  or  what  might  be  left  of  it.  Look 
ing  that  way  he  saw  a  group  of  ten  or  fifteen 
grey  heads  riding  through  a  cross  street  upon 
bay  horses;  and  at  a  glance  he  knew  them  for  a 
detachment  of  Forrest's  men,  who  always  came 
mounted  to  reunions.  Once  they  rode  like 
centaurs;  now,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  they 
rode  like  sacks  or  racks.  It  depended  on 
whether,  with  age,  the  rider  had  grown  stout  or 
stayed  thin. 

[199] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Having  looked  both  ways,  the  sergeant  ad 
dressed  himself  to  a  sight  nearer  home.  He 
considered  his  feet.  Viewed  through  sundry 
magnifying  and  misleading  inches  of  water  they 
seemed  pinky  white;  but  when,  groaning  gently, 
he  lifted  one  foot  clear  it  showed  an  angry 
chafed  red  upon  toe  and  heel,  with  large  blis- 
tery  patches  running  across  the  instep.  With 
a  plop  he  lowered  it  back  into  the  laving  depths. 
Then,  bending  over  sideways,  he  picked  up  one 
of  his  shoes,  shaking  the  crumpled  sock  out  of 
it  and  peering  down  its  white-lined  gullet  to 
read  the  maker's  tag: 

"Fall  River,  Mass.,"  the  sergeant  spelled  out 
the  stamped  letters — "Reliance  Shoe  Company, 
Fall  River,  Mass." 

He  dropped  the  shoe  and  in  tones  of  reluctant 
admiration  addressed  empty  space: 

"Well,  now,  ain't  them  Yankees  the  per 
sistent  devils!  Waitin'  forty-odd  years  fur  a 
chance  to  cripple  me  up!  But  they  done  it!" 

Judge  Priest  turned  in  at  the  front  gate  and 
came  up  the  yard  walk.  He  was  in  white  linens, 
severely  and  comfortably  civilian  in  cut,  but 
with  a  commandant's  badge  upon  his  lapel  and 
a  short,  bobby,  black  ostrich  feather  in  the  brim 
of  his  hat.  He  advanced  slowly,  with  a  slight 
outward  skew  to  his  short,  round  legs. 

* '  Aha ! "  he  said  understandingly .    * '  Whut  did 

I  tell  you,  Jimmy  Bagby,  about  tryin'  to  parade 

in  new  shoes?     But  no,  you  wouldn't  listen— 

you  would  be  one  of  these  here  young  dudes!" 

[200] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

"Judge,"  pleaded  the  sergeant,  "don't  rub  it 
in!  I'm  about  ruint — I'm  ruint  for  life  with 
these  here  feet  of  mine." 

Still  at  a  somewhat  stiff  and  straddle-legged 
gait,  the  judge  mounted  the  porch,  and  after  a 
quick  appraisal  of  all  the  chairs  in  sight  eased 
his  frame  into  one  that  had  a  cushioned  seat. 
A  small  involuntary  moan  escaped  him.  It  was 
the  sergeant's  time  to  gloat. 

"I'm  wearin'  my  blisters  on  my  feet,"  he 
exulted,  "and  you're  wearin'  yourn — elsewhere. 
That's  whut  you  git  at  your  age  fur  tryin'  to 
ride  a  strange  horse  in  a  strange  town." 

"Jimmy,"  protested  the  judge,  "age  ain't  got 
nothin'  a' tall  to  do  with  it;  but  that  certainly 
was  a  mighty  hard-rackin'  animal  they  conferred 
on  me.  I  feel  like  I've  been  straddlin'  a  hip 
roof  durin'  an  earthquake.  How  did  you  make 
out  to  git  back  here?" 

"That  last  half  mile  or  so  I  shore  did  think 
I  was  trampin'  along  on  red-hot  ploughshears. 
If  there'd  been  one  more  mile  to  walk  I  reckin 
I'd  'a'  been  listed  amongst  the  wounded  and 
missin'.  I  jest  did  about  manage  to  hobble  in. 
And  Mizz  Grundy  fetched  me  this  here  piggin 
of  cold  water  out  on  the  porch,  so's  I  could  favour 
my  feet  and  watch  the  boys  passin'  at  the  same 
time." 

Judge  Priest  undertook  to  cross  one  leg  over 
the  other,  but  uncrossed  it  again  with  a  wince  of 
sudden  concern  on  his  pink  face. 

"How  dp  you  aim,  then,  to  git  to  the  big 
[201] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


doin's  this  evenin'?"  he  asked,  and  shifted  his 
position  slightly  where  he  sat. 

"I  ain't  aimin'  to  git  there,"  said  Sergeant 
Bagby.  "I  aim  to  stay  right  here  and  take 
my  ease.  Besides,  ef  I  don't  git  these  feet  of 
mine  shrunk  down  some  by  milkin'  time,  I'm 
shore  goin'  to  have  to  pull  my  pants  off  over 
my  head  this  night." 

"Well,  now,  ain't  that  too  bad!"  commis 
erated  his  friend  and  commander.  "I  wouldn't 
miss  hearin'  Gen'l  Gracey's  speech  fur  a  purty." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  the  sergeant 
was  prompt  to  tell  him.  "You  and  Lew  Lake 
and  Hector  Woodward  and  the  other  boys  kin 
represent  Gideon  K.  Irons  Camp  without  me  fur 
oncet  anyway.  And  say,  listen,  Judge,"  he 
added  with  malice  aforethought,  "you'd  better 
borrow  a  goosehair  cushion,  or  a  feather  tick, 
or  somethin'  soft,  to  set  on  out  yonder.  Them 
plain  pine  benches  are  liable  to  make  a  purty 
hard  roostin'  place,  even  fur  an  old  seasoned 
cavalryman." 

Judge  Priest's  retort,  if  he  had  one  in  stock, 
remained  unbroached,  because  just  then  their 
hostess  bustled  out  to  announce  dinner  was  on 
the  table.  It  was  to  be  an  early  dinner  and  a 
hurried  one,  because,  of  course,  everybody 
wanted  to  start  early,  to  be  sure  of  getting  good 
seats  for  the  speaking.  The  sergeant  ate  his 
right  where  he  was,  his  feet  in  his  tub,  like  a 
Foot- washing  Baptist. 

There  were  servants  aplenty  within,  but  the 
[202] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

younger  Miss  Grundy  elected  to  serve  him;  a 
pretty  girl,  all  in  snowy  white  except  for  touches 
of  red  at  her  throat  and  her  slender  belted  waist, 
and  upon  one  wrist  was  a  bracelet  of  black  vel 
vet  with  old  soldiers'  buttons  strung  thickly 
upon  it.  On  a  tray,  daintily  tricked  out,  she 
brought  the  sergeant  fried  chicken  and  corn 
pudding  and  butter  beans,  and  the  like,  with 
corn  pones  hot-buttered  in  the  kitchen;  and 
finally  a  slice  carved  from  the  blushing  red 
heart  of  the  first  home-grown  watermelon  of 
the  season.  Disdaining  the  false  conventions  of 
knife  and  fork  the  sergeant  bit  into  this,  full  face. 

Upon  the  tub  bottom  his  inflamed  toes  over 
lapped  and  waggled  in  a  gentle  ecstasy;  and 
between  bites,  while  black  seeds  trickled  from 
the  corners  of  his  lips,  he  related  to  the  younger 
Miss  Grundy  the  beginning  of  his  story  of  that 
memorable  passage  of  words  upon  a  certain 
memorable  occasion,  between  General  John  C. 
Breckinridge  and  General  Simon  Bolivar  Buck- 
ner.  The  young  lady  had  already  heard  this 
same  beginning  thrice,  the  sergeant  having  been 
a  guest  under  the  parental  roof  since  noon  of 
the  day  before,  but,  until  interruption  came, 
she  listened  with  unabated  interest  and  laughed 
at  exactly  the  right  places,  whereupon  the  grati 
fied  narrator  mentally  catalogued  her  as  about 
the  smartest  young  lady,  as  well  as  the  prettiest, 
he  had  met  in  a  coon's  age. 

All  good  things  must  have  an  end,  however — 
even  a  watermelon  dessert  and  the  first  part  of 
[203]  ~ 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


a  story  by  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby;  and  so  a 
little  later,  rejecting  all  spoken  and  implied  sym 
pathy  with  a  jaunty  indifference  that  may  have 
been  slightly  forced,  the  sergeant  remained,  like 
another  Diogenes,  in  the  company  of  his  tub, 
while  the  rest  of  the  household,  including  the 
grey-haired  Reverend  Doctor  Grundy,  his 
white-haired  wife,  Judge  Priest  and  the  two 
Misses  Grundy,  departed  in  a  livery-stable  car 
ryall  for  a  given  point  half  a  mile  up  the  street, 
where  a  certain  large  skating  rink  stretched  its 
open  doors  hospitably,  so  disguised  in  bunting 
and  flags  it  hardly  knew  itself  by  its  grand  yet 
transient  title  of  Reunion  Colosseum.  Follow 
ing  this  desertion,  there  was  for  a  while  in  all 
directions  a  pleasurable  bustle  to  keep  the  foot- 
fast  watcher  bright  as  to  eye  and  stirred  as  to 
pulse. 

"Why,  shuckins,  there  ain't  a  chance  fur  me 
to  git  lonely,"  he  bade  himself — "not  with  all 
this  excitement  goin'  on  and  these  here  hoofs  of 
mine  to  keep  me  company!" 

Crowds  streamed  by  afoot,  asaddle  and 
awheel,  all  bound  for  a  common  destination. 
Every  house  within  sight  gave  up  its  separate 
group  of  dwellers  and  guests;  for  during  reunion 
week  everybody  takes  in  somebody.  Under  the 
threshing  feet  the  winnowed  dust  mounted  up 
in  scrolls  from  the  roadway,  sifting  down  on  the 
grass  and  powdering  the  chinaberry  trees  over 
head.  No  less  than  eight  brass  bands  passed 
within  sight  or  hearing.  And  one  of  them 
[204] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

played  Maryland,  My  Maryland;  and  one  of 
them  played  The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag — but  the 
other  six  played  Dixie,  as  waa  fitting. 

A  mounted  staff  in  uniform  clattered  grandly 
by,  escorting  the  commanding  general  of  some 
division  or  other,  and  an  open  carriage  came 
along,  overflowing  with  a  dainty  freightage  of 
state  sponsors  and  maids-of -honour.  As  it  rolled 
grandly  past  behind  its  four  white  horses,  a 
saucy  girl  on  the  back  seat  saw  an  old  man  sit 
ting  alone  on  the  Grundy  porch,  with  his  feet 
in  a  tub,  and  she  blew  a  kiss  at  him  off  the  tips 
of  her  fingers;  and  Sergeant  Bagby,  half  rising, 
waved  back  most  gallantly,  and  God-blessed 
her  and  called  her  Honey! 

Soon,  though,  the  crowds  thinned  away. 
Where  multitudes  had  been,  only  an  occasional 
straggler  was  to  be  seen.  The  harried  and  fret 
ted  dust  settled  back.  A  locust  in  a  tree  began 
to  exercise  his  talents  in  song,  and  against  the 
green  warp  of  the  shrubbery  on  the  lawn  a  little 
blue  bobbin  of  an  indigo  bird  went  vividly  back 
and  forth.  Lonesome?  No,  nothing  like  that; 
but  the  sergeant  confessed  to  himself  that  pos 
sibly  he  was  just  a  trifle  drowsy.  His  head 
dropped  forward  on  his  badged  chest,  and  as  the 
cool  wetness  drew  the  fever  out  of  his  feet  his 
toes,  under  water,  curled  up  in  comfort  and 
content. 

Asked  about  it  afterward,  Sergeant  Bagby 
would  have  told  you  that  he  had  no  more  than 
closed  his  eyelids  for  a  wink  or  two.  But  the 
[205] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


shadows  had  appreciably  lengthened  upon  the 
grass  before  a  voice,  lifted  in  a  hail,  roused  him 
up.  Over  the  low  hedge  that  separated  the 
parsonage  yard  from  the  yard  adjoining  on  the 
left  a  man  was  looking  at  him — a  man  some 
where  near  his  own  age,  he  judged,  in  an  in 
stantaneous  appraisal. 

"Cumrud,"  said  this  person,  "howdy-do?" 

"Which?"  inquired  Sergeant  Bagby. 

"I  said,  Cumrud,  howdy?"  repeated  the 
other. 

"No,"  said  the  sergeant;  "my  name  is 
Bagby." 

"I  taken  it  fur  granted  that  you  was  to  home 
all  alone,  "said  the  man  beyond  the  hedge. 
"Be  you?" 

"At  this  time  of  speakin',"  said  the  sergeant, 
"there's  nobody  at  home  exceptin'  me  and  a 
crop  of  blisters.  Better  come  over,"  he  added 
hospitably. 

"Well,"  said  the,  stranger,  as  though  he  had 
been  considering  the  advisability  of  such  a  move 
for  quite  a  period  of  time,  "I  mout." 

With  no  further  urging  he  wriggled  through  a 
gap  in  the  hedge  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  revealing  himself  as  a  small,  wiry,  rust- 
coloured  man.  Anybody  with  an  eye  to  see  could 
tell  that  in  his  youth  he  must  have  been  as  red 
headed  as  a  pochard  drake.  Despite  abundant 
streakings  of  grey  in  his  hair  he  was  still  red 
headed,  with  plentiful  whiskers  to  match,  and 
on  his  nose  a  pair  of  steel-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
[206] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY 


on  his  face  and  neck  a  close  sowing  of  the  big 
gest,  intensest  freckles  Sergeant  Bagby  had  ever 
beheld.  They  spangled  his  skin  as  with  red 
asterisks,  and  the  gnarled  hand  he  extended  in 
greeting  as  he  mounted  the  porch  looked  as 
though  in  its  time  it  had  mixed  at  least  one  mil 
lion  bran  mashes. 

Achieving  a  somewhat  wabbly  standing  pos 
ture  in  his  keeler,  the  sergeant  welcomed  him  in 
due  form. 

"I  don't  live  here  myself,"  he  explained,  "but 
I  reckin  you  might  say  I'm  in  full  charge,  seein' 
ez  I  crippled  myself  up  this  mornin'  and  had 
to  stay  behind  this  evenin'.  Come  in  and  take 
a  cheer  and  rest  yourself." 

"  Thanky ! "  said  the  f reckly  one.  "  I  mout  do 
that  too."  He  did.  His  voice  had  a  nasal  smack 
to  it  which  struck  the  sergeant  as  being  alien. 
"I  didn't  ketch  the  name,"  he  said.  "Mine's 
Bloomfield — Christian  name,  Ezra  H." 

"Mine's  Bagby,"  stated  the  sergeant — "late 
of  King's  Hell  Hounds.  You've  probably  heard 
of  that  command — purty  nigh  everybody  in 
these  parts  has." 

"Veteran  myself,"  said  Mr.  Bloomfield  brisk 
ly.  "Served  four  years  and  two  months.  En 
listed  at  fust  call  for  volunteers." 

"Started  in  kind  of  early  myself,"  said  the 
sergeant,  mechanically  catching  for  the  moment 
the  other's  quality  of  quick,  clipped  speech. 
"But  say,  look  here,  pardner,"  he  added,  re- 
suming  his  own  natural  tone,  "  whut's  the  reason 
[207] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


you  ain't  out  yonder  at  that  there  Colosseum 
with  all  the  other  boys  this  evenin'?" 

A  whimsical  squint  brought  the  red  eyelashes 
close  together. 

"Well,"  stated  Mr.  Bloomfield,  rummaging 
with  a  deliberate  hand  in  the  remote  inner  fast 
nesses  of  his  whiskers,  "I  couldn't  scursely  say 
that  I  b'long  out  there."  Then  he  halted,  as  if 
there  was  no  more  to  be  said. 

"You  told  me  you  served  all. the  way  through, 
didn't  you?"  asked  the  sergeant,  puzzled. 

"So  I  told  you  and  so  I  did,"  said  Mr. 
Bloomfield;  "but  I  didn't  tell  you  which  side 
it  was  I  happened  to  be  a-servin'  on.  Twen 
tieth  Indiana  Infantry — that's  my  regiment, 
and  a  good  smart  one  it  was  too." 

"Oh!"  said  Sergeant  Bagby,  slightly  shocked 
by  the  suddenness  of  this  enlightenment— 
"Oh!  Well,  set  down  anyway,  Mr.  Bloom- 
field.  Excuse  me — you're  already  settin',  ain't 

you?" 

For  a  fraction  of  a  minute  they  contemplated 
each  other,  Sergeant  Bagby  being  slightly  flus 
tered  and  Mr.  Bloomfield  to  all  appearances 
perfectly  calm.  The  sergeant  cleared  his  throat, 
but  it  was  the  visitor  who  spoke: 

"I've  got  a  fust-rate  memory  for  faces,  and 
the  like;  and  when  I  fust  seen  you  settin'  here 
you  had  a  kind  of  familiar  cut  to  your  jib 
someway.  That's  one  reason  why  I  hailed  you. 
I  wonder  now  if  we  didn't  meet  up  with  one 
another  acrost  the  smoke  back  yonder  in  those 
[208] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

former  days?     I'd  take  my  oath  I  seen  you 
soinewheres." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  answered  Ser 
geant  Bagby.  "All  durin'  that  war  I  was  al 
most  constantly  somewheres." 

"Fust  Bull  Run — I  wonder  could  it  'a*  been 
there?"  suggested  Mr.  Bloomfield. 

"First  Manassas,  you  mean,"  corrected  the 
sergeant  gently,  but  none-the-less  firmly.  "  Was 
you  there  or  thereabout  by  any  chance?"  Mr. 
Bloomfield  nodded.  "Me  too,"  said  Sergeant 
Bagby — "on  detached  service.  Mebbe,"  he 
added  it  softly — "mebbe  ef  you'd  turn  round 
I'd  know  you  by  your  back." 

If  the  blow  went  home  Mr.  Bloomfield,  like 
a  Spartan  of  the  Hoosiers,  hid  his  wounds.  Out 
wardly  he  gave  no  sign. 

"P'raps  so,"  he  assented  mildly;  then:  "How 
'bout  Gettysburg?" 

The  sergeant  fell  into  the  trap  that  was  digged 
for  him.  The  sergeant  was  proud  of  his  services 
in  the  East. 

"You  bet  your  bottom  dollar  I  was  there!" 
he  proclaimed — "all  three  days." 

"Then  p'raps  you'd  better  turn  round  too," 
said  Mr.  Bloomfield  in  honeyed  accents,  "and 
mebbe  it  mout  be  I'd  be  able  to  reckernise  you 
by  the  shape  of  your  spinal  colyum." 

Up  rose  Sergeant  Bagby,  his  face  puckering  in 
a  grin  and  his  hand  outstretched.  High  up  his 
back  his  coat  peaked  out  behind  like  the  tail  of 
a  he-mallard. 

[209} 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


"Pardner,"  he  announced,  "I'm  right  glad 
I  didn't  kill  you  when  I  had  all  them  chances." 

"Cumrud,"  replied  Mr.  Bloomfield,  "on  the 
whole  and  considerin'  of  everything,  I  don't 
regret  now  that  I  spared  you." 

If  Sergeant  Bagby  had  but  worn  a  Confed 
erate  goatee,  which  he  didn't,  being  smooth- 
shaved;  and  if  he  hadn't  been  standing  mid- 
shin-deep  in  a  foot-tub;  and  if  only  Mr.  Bloom- 
field's  left  shirtsleeve,  instead  of  being  com 
fortably  full  of  freckled  arm,  had  been  empty 
and  pinned  to  the  bosom  of  his  waistcoat — they 
might  have  posed  just  as  they  stood  then  for 
the  popular  picture  entitled  North  and  South 
United  which  you  will  find  on  the  outer  cover  of 
the  Memorial  Day  edition  of  every  well-con 
ducted  Sunday  newspaper  in  the  land.  But 
that  is  ever  the  way  with  real  life — it  so  often 
departs  from  its  traditional  aspects.  After  a  bit 
the  sergeant  spoke. 

"I  was  jest  thinkin',"  he  said  dreamily. 

"So  was  I,"  assented  Mr.  Bloomfield.  "I 
wonder  now  if  it  could  be  so  that  we  both  of  us 
had  our  minds  on  the  same  pleasin'  subject?" 

"I  was  jest  thinkin',"  repeated  the  sergeant, 
"that  merely  because  the  Bloody  Chasm  is 
bridged  over  ain't  no  fittin'  reason  why  it  should 
n't  be  slightly  irrigated  frum  time  to  time." 

"My  idee  to  a  jot,"  agreed  Mr.  Bloomfield 
heartily.  "Seems  as  if  the  dust  of  conflict  has 
been  a-floatin'  round  loose  long  enough  to  stand 
a  little  dampin'  down." 

[210] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

"Ef  only  I  was  at  home  now,"  continued  Ser 
geant  Bagby,  "I'd  be  able  to  put  my  hand  on 
somethin'  handy  for  moistenin'  purposes;  but, 
seein'  as  I'm  a  visitor  here,  I  ain't  in  no  position 
to  extend  the  hospitalities  suitable  to  the  oc 


casion." 


"  Sho,  now !  Don't  let  that  fret  you,"  soothed 
Mr.  Bloomfield — "not  with  me  livin'  next  door." 
He  nimbly  descended  the  steps,  but  halted  at 
the  bottom:  "Cumrud,  how  do  you  take  yours 
—straight  or  toddy?" 

"Sugar  and  water  don't  hurt  none — in  mod 
eration,"  replied  the  sergeant.  "But  look  here, 
pardner,  this  here  is  a  preacher's  front  porch. 
We  don't  want  to  be  puttin'  any  scandal  on 
him." 

"I'd  already  figured  that  out  too,"  said  the 
provident  Mr.  Bloomfield.  "I'll  bring  her  over 
in  a  couple  of  chiny  teacups." 

The  smile  which,  starting  from  the  centre, 
spread  over  the  sergeant's  face  like  ripples  over 
a  pond  had  not  entirely  faded  away  when  in  a 
miraculously  short  time  Mr.  Bloomfield  re 
turned,  a  precious  votive  offering  poised  ac 
curately  in  either  hand.  "Bagby,"  he  said, 
"that's  somethin'  extry  prime  in  the  line  of 
York-state  rye!" 

"Is  it?"  said  the  sergeant.  "Well,  I  reckin 
the  sugar  comes  frum  Newerleans  and  that 
oughter  take  the  curse  off.  Bloomfield,  here's 
lookin'  toward  you!" 

"Same  to  you,  Bagby!" 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


China  clicked  pleasantly  on  china  as  teacup 
bottom  touched  teacup  brim,  this  sound  being 
succeeded  instantly  by  a  series  of  soft  sipping 
sounds.  Sitting  thus,  his  eyes  beaming  softly 
over  the  bulge  of  his  upturned  cup  and  his  lips 
drawing  in  the  last  lingering  drops  of  sirupy 
sweetness,  the  sergeant  became  aware  of  a  man 
clumping  noisily  along  the  sidewalk — an  old 
man  in  a  collarless  hickory  shirt,  with  a  mouse- 
grey  coat  dangling  over  one  arm  and  mouse-grey 
trousers  upheld  by  home-made  braces.  He  was 
a  tall,  sparse,  sinewy  old  man,  slightly  withered, 
yet  erect,  of  a  build  to  remind  one  of  a  blasted 
pine;  his  brow  was  very  stormy  and  he  talked 
to  himself  as  he  walked.  His  voice  but  not  his 
words  came  to  the  sergeant  in  a  rolling,  thun 
dery  mutter. 

"Hey,  pardner!"  called  Sergeant  Bagby,  hold 
ing  his  emptied  cup  breast-high.  "Goin'  some- 
wheres  or  jest  travellin'  round?" 

The  passer-by  halted  and  regarded  him  gloom 
ily  over  the  low  palings  of  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Grundy's  fence. 

"Well,"  he  made  slow  answer,  "I  don't  know 
ez  it's  anybody's  business;  but,  since  you  ast 
me,  I  ain't  headin'  fur  no  place  in  particular — 
I'm  try  in*  to  walk  a  mad  off." 

"Come  right  on  in  here  then,"  advised  the 
sergeant,  "we've  got  the  cure  fur  that  com 
plaint."  He  glanced  sideways  toward  his  com 
panion.  "Bloomfield,  this  here  love  feast  looks 
mighty  like  she  might  grow  a  little.  Do  you 
[212] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

reckin  you've  got  another  one  of  them  teacups 
over  at  your  place,  right  where  you  could  put 
your  hands  on  it  easy?" 

"That's  a  chore  which  won't  be  no  trouble 
whatsoever,"  agreed  Mr.  Bloomfield;  and  he 
made  as  if  to  go  on  the  errand,  but  stopped  at 
the  porch  edge  just  inside  the  vines  as  the  lone 
pedestrian,  having  opened  the  gate,  came  slowly 
toward  them.  The  newcomer  put  his  feet  down 
hard  on  the  bricks;  slashes  of  angry  colour  like 
red  flares  burned  under  the  skin  over  his  high 
and  narrow  cheekbones. 

"Gabe  Ezell— Cherokee  Rifles,"  he  said 
abruptly  as  he  mounted  the  steps;  "that's  my 
name  and  my  command." 

"I'm  Sergeant  Bagby,  of  King's  Hell  Hounds, 
and  monstrous  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
vouchsafed,  for  his  part,  the  sergeant.  "This 
gentleman  here  is  my  friend,  Major  Bloomfield. 
Take  a  cheer  and  set  down,  pardner,  and  rest 
your  face  and  hands  a  spell.  You  look  like  you 
might  be  a  little  bit  put  out  about  something?" 

The  stranger  uttered  a  grunt  that  might  mean 
anything  at  all  or  nothing  at  all.  He  lowered 
himself  into  a  chair  and  tugged  at  the  collarless 
band  of  his  shirt  as  though  it  choked  him.  The 
sergeant,  pleasingly  warmed  to  the  core  of  his 
being,  was  not  to  be  daunted.  He  put  another 
question: 

"Whut's  the  reason  you  ain't  out  to  the 
speakin'?  I'm  sort  of  lamed  up  myse'f — made 
the  fatal  mistake  of  tryin'  to  break  in  a  pair  of 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Dam- Yankee  shoes  on  a  couple  of  Southern- 
Rights  feet.  I'm  purty  well  reconciled,  I  reckin ; 
but  my  feet  appear  to  be  still  unreconstructed, 
frum  what  I  kin  gather."  Chuckling,  he  glanced 
downward  at  the  stubborn  members.  "But 
there  don't  seem  to  be  nothin'  wrong  with  you— 
without  it's  your  feelin's." 

"I  was  figgerin'  some  on  goin'  out  there," 
began  the  tall  old  man,  "but  I  couldn't  git  there 
on  time — I've  been  at  the  calaboose."  He  fin 
ished  the  confession  in  a  sort  of  defiant  blurt. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  sergeant  won- 
deringly,  and  commiseratingly  too;  and  from 
where  he  stood  on  the  top  step  the  newly  bre- 
vetted  major  evidenced  his  sympathy  in  a  series 
of  deprecatory  clucks.  The  third  man  glared 
from  one  to  the  other  of  them. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it  none,"  he  went  on 
stormily.  "Ef  I  had  it  to  do  over  agin  I'd  do 
it  agin  the  very  same  way.  I  may  not  be  so 
young  ez  I  was  oncet,  but  anybody  that  insults 
the  late  Southern  Confederacy  to  my  face  is 
breedin'  trouble  for  hisse'f — I  don't  care  ef  he's 
as  big  as  a  mountain!" 

From  the  depths  of  the  foot-tub  came  small 
splashing  sounds,  and  little  wavelets  rose  over 
its  sides  and  plopped  upon  the  porch  floor. 

"I  reckin  sech  a  thing  as  that  might  pester 
me  a  little  bit  my  own  se'f ,"  stated  the  sergeant 
softly.  "Yes,  suh;  you  might  safely  venture 
that  under  them  circumstances  I  would  become 
kind  of  irritated  myse'f.  Who  done  it?" 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     B  A  G  B  Y?S     FEET 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Ezell,  "and  let  you 
boys  be  the  jedges  of  whether  I  done  the  right 
thing.  After  the  parade  was  through  with  this 
mornin'  me  and  some  of  the  other  boys  from 
down  my  way  was  knockin'  round.  I  got  sepa 
rated  from  the  rest  of  'em  someway  and  down 
yond'  on  that  main  street — I'm  a  stranger  in 
this  town  and  I  don't  rightly  recall  its  name, 
but  it's  the  main  street,  whar  all  them  stores  is 
—well,  anyway,  down  there  I  come  past  whar 
one  of  these  here  movin'-picture  to-dos  was 
located.  It  had  a  lot  of  war  pictures  stuck  up 
out  in  front  of  it  and  a  big  sign  that  said  on  it: 
At  the  Cannon's  Mouth !  So,  not  havin'  nothin' 
else  to  do,  I  paid  my  ten  cents  to  a  young  lady 
at  the  door  and  went  on  in.  They  gimme  a  seat 
right  down  in  frontlike,  and  purty  soon  after 
that  they  started  throwin'  them  pictures  on  a 
big  white  sheet — a  screen,  I  think  they  calls  it. 

"Well,  suhs,  at  the  fust  go-off  it  was  purty 
good.  I  got  consider'bly  interested — I  did  so. 
There  was  a  house  come  on  the  sheet  that  looked 
powerful  like  several  places  that  I  knows  of 
down  in  Middle  Georgia,  whar  I  come  frum;  and 
there  was  several  young  ladies  dressed  up  like 
they  used  to  dress  up  back  in  the  old  days  when 
we  was  all  young  fellows  together.  Right  off, 
though,  one  of  the  young  ladies — the  purtiest 
one  of  the  lot  and  the  spryest-actin' — she  fell  in 
love  with  a  Yankee  officer.  That  jarred  me  up  a 
little;  yet,  after  all,  it  mout  'a'  happened  and, 
besides,  he  wasn't  sech  a  bad  young  fellow — 
[215] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


fur  a  Yankee.  He  saved  the  young  lady's 
brother  when  the  brother  come  home  frum  the 
army  to  see  his  sick  baby  and  was  about  to  be 
ketched  fur  a  spy.  Yes,  suhs;  I've  got  to  admit 
that  there  Yankee  behaved  very  decently  in 
the  matter. 

"Well,  purty  soon  after  the  lovin'  part  was 
over  they  come  to  the  fightin'  part,  and  a  string 
band  began  to  play  war  pieces.  I  must  say  I 
got  right  smartly  worked  up  'long  about  there. 
Them  fellows  that  was  dressed  up  ez  soldiers 
looked  too  tony  and  slick  to  be  real  natchel — 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  nary  one  of  'em  wearin' 
a  shirt  that  needed  searchin',  the -way  it  was 
when  we-all  was  out  soldierin' — but  ef  you'd 
shet  your  eyes  'bout  halfway  you  could  mighty 
nigh  imagine  it  was  the  real  thing  agin.  A  bat 
tery  of  our  boys  went  into  action  on  the  aidge 
of  a  ploughed  field  and  you  could  see  the  smoke 
bustin'  out  of  the  muzzles  of  the  pieces,  and  you 
could  hear  the  pieces  go  off,  kerboom! — I  don't 
know  how  they  worked  that  part  of  it,  but  they 
did;  and  'way  over  yond'  in  a  piece  of  woods  you 
could  see  the  Yankees  jest  a-droppin'.  I  seem 
to  recollect  standin'  up  long  about  there  and 
givin'  a  yell  or  two  myself;  but  in  a  minute  or  so 
a  whole  lot  more  Yankees  come  chargin'  out 
of  the  timber,  and  they  begin  to  drive  our  boys 
back. 

"That  didn't  seem  right  to  me — that  didn't 
seem  no  way  to  have  it.  I  reckin,  though,  I 
might  'a'  stood  that,  only  in  less'n  no  time  a-tall 
[216] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBYS     FEET 

our  boys  was  throwin'  away  their  guns  and  some 
of  'em  was  runnin'  away,  and  some  of  'em  was 
throwin'  up  their  hands  and  surrenderin' !  And 
the  Yankees  was  chargin'  in  amongst  'em,  a-cut- 
tin'  and  slashin'  and  shootin',  and  takin'  pris 
oners  right  and  left.  It  was  a  scandalous  thing 
— and  a  lie  besides!  It  couldn't  never  'a'  hap 
pened  noway." 

His  voice,  deep  and  grumbling  before,  became 
sharply  edged  with  mounting  emotion.  Mr. 
Bloomfield  looked  away  to  avoid  exposing  a 
happy  grin,  new-born  among  his  whiskers.  It 
was  Sergeant  Bagby  who  spoke,  the  intention 
on  his  part  being  to  soothe  rather  than  to 
inflame. 

"Pardner,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to  remember 
it  wasn't  nothin'  but  jest  play-actin' — jest  hired 
hands  makin'  believe  that  it  was  so." 

"I  don't  care  none  ef  it  was,"  snapped  Mr. 
Ezell.  "And,  besides,  whut's  that  got  to  do 
with  it — with  the  principle  of  the  thing?  It 
was  a  deliberate  insult  flung  right  in  the  face 
of  the  late  Southern  Confederacy — that  and 
nothin'  short  of  it.  Well,  I  stood  it  jest  as  long 
as  I  natchelly  could — and  that  wasn't  very  long, 
neither,  lemme  tell  you,  gentlemen." 

"Then  whut?"  inquired  Sergeant  Bagby, 
bending  forward  in  his  seat. 

"Then  I  up  with  my  cheer  and  chunked  it 

right  through  their  dad-burned,  lyin'  sheet— 

that's  whut  I  done!    I  busted  a  big  hole  in  her 

right  whar  there  was  a  smart-alecky  Yankee 

[217] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


colonel  sailin'  acrost  on  a  horse.  I  says:  'Here's 
a  few  reinforcements  frum  the  free  state  of 
Georgia ! '  And  I  let  him  have  it  with  the  cheer, 
kerblim !  That  there  battle  broke  up  right  then 
and  there.  And  that's  how  I  come  to  go  to  the 
calaboose." 

Mr.  Bloomfield,  now  rigidly  erect,  and  with 
no  grin  on  his  face,  opened  his  lips  to  say  some 
thing;  but  Sergeant  Bagby  beat  him  to  it. 

"Pardner,"  he  asked  incredulously,  "did  they 
lock  you  up  jest  fur  doin'  that?" 

"No,"  said  the  heated  Mr.  Ezell,  "they  didn't 
really  lock  me  up  a-tall.  But  the  secont  I 
thro  wed  that  cheer  there  was  a  lot  of  yellin' 
and  scrabblin'  round,  and  the  lights  went  up, 
and  the  string  band  quit  playin'  its  piece  and 
here  come  a-runnin'  an  uppidy-lookin'  man — he 
was  the  one  that  run  the  show,  I  take  it — 
bleatin'  out  somethin'  about  me  havin'  broke 
up  his  show  and  him  wantin'  damages.  He 
made  the  mistake  of  grabbin'  holt  of  me  and 
callin'  me  a  name  that  I  don't  purpose  to  have 
nobody  usin'  on  me.  He  wanted  damages. 
Well,  right  there  he  got  'em!" 

He  raised  a  bony  fist,  on  which  the  knuckles 
were  all  barked  and  raw,  and  gazed  at  it  fondly, 
as  though  these  were  most  honourable  scars. 

"So  then,  after  that,  a  couple  of  them  other 
show  people  they  drug  him  away  frum  whar  he 
was  layin'  on  the  floor  a-yellin',"  he  went  on, 
"and  a  town  policeman  come  in  and  taken  me 
off  to  the  calaboose  in  a  hack,  with  a  crowd 
[218] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBYS     FEET 

followin'  'long  behind.  But  when  we  got  there 
the  gentleman  that  was  runnin'  the  place — he 
wore  blue  clothes  and  I  jedge  from  his  costume 
and  deportment  he  must  'a'  been  the  town 
marshal — he  listened  to  whut  we-all  had  to  say, 
and  he  taken  a  look  at  that  there  showman's 
busted  jaw  and  sort  of  grinned  to  hisse'f ;  then 
he  said  that,  seem'  as  all  us  old  soldiers  had  the 
freedom  of  the  city  for  the  time  bein',  he  'lowed 
he'd  let  the  whole  matter  drop  right  whar  it  was 
providin'  I'd  give  him  my  solemn  promise  not  to 
go  projectin'  round  no  more  movin'-picture 
places  endurin'  of  my  stay  in  their  midst.  Well, 
ef  they're  all  like  the  one  I  seen  to-day  it's  goin* 
to  be  a  powerful  easy  promise  fur  me  to  keep — 
I  know  that!  But  that's  how  I  come  to  miss 
the  doin's  this  evenin' — I  missed  my  dinner  too 
— and  that's  how  I  come  to  be  walkin'  way  out 
here  all  by  myse'f." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  Mr.  Bloomfield 
saw  his  chance.  Mr.  Bloomfield's  voice  had  a 
crackling  tone  in  it,  like  fire  running  through 
broom-sedge. 

"Lookyhere,  my  friend!"  he  demanded  crisp 
ly.  "Ain't  you  been  kind  of  flyin'  in  the  face 
of  history  as  well  as  the  movin'-picture  indus 
try?  Seems  to  me  I  recall  that  you  pleg-taked 
Rebs  got  a  blamed  good  lickin'  about  ever' 
once  in  so  often,  or  even  more  frequently  than 
that.  If  my  memory  serves  me  right  it  seems 
to  me  you  did  indeed!" 

Mr.  Ezell  swung  in  his  chair  and  the  spots  in 
[219] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


his  cheeks  spread  until  his  whole  face  burned  a 
brick-dust  red.  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  threw 
himself  into  the  breach.  Figuratively  speaking, 
he  had  both  arms  full  of  heartsease  and  rose 
mary. 

"In  reguards  to  the  major  here" — he  indi 
cated  Mr.  Bloomfield  with  a  gracious  gesture 
of  amity — "I  furgot  to  tell  you  that  he  taken  a 
rather  prominent  part — on  the  other  side  frum 
us." 

As  Mr.  EzelPs  choler  rose  his  brows  came 
down  and  lowered. 

"Huh!"  said  Mr.  Ezell  with  deadly  slow 
ness.  "Whut's  a  Yankee  doin'  down  here  in 
this  country?" 

"Doin*  fairly  well,"  answered  Mr.  Bloom- 
field.  "F'r  instance,  he's  payin'  taxes  on  that 
there  house  next  door."  He  flirted  his  whisk 
ered  chin  over  his  left  shoulder.  "F'r  instance, 
also,  he's  runnin'  the  leadin'  tannery  and  sad 
dle-works  of  this  city,  employin'  sixteen  hands 
regular.  Also,  he  was  elected  a  justice  of  the 
peace  a  week  ago  last  We'nesday  by  his  fellow 
citizens,  regardless  of  politics  or  religion — 
thanky  for  askin'! 

"Also,"  he  went  on,  his  freckles  now  standing 
out  beautifully  against  a  mounting  pink  back 
ground — "Also  and  furthermore,  he  remembers 
distinctly  having  been  present  on  a  number  of 
occasions  when  he  helped  to  lick  you  Seceshers 
good  and  proper.  And  if  you  think,  my  friend, 
that  I'm  goin'  to  abate  one  jot  or  tittle  from 
[220] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBYS     FEET 

that  statement  you're  barkin'  up  the  wrong 
tree,  I  tell  you!" 

Now  behold  in  the  role  of  peacemaker  Ser 
geant  Jimmy  Bagby  rising  grandly  erect  to  his 
full  height,  but  keeping  his  feet  and  ankles  in 
the  foot-tub. 

"Say,  listen  here,  Major,"  he  pleaded,  "ef 
you  kin  kindly  see  your  way  clear  to  abatin'  a 
few  jots  on  behalf  of  Indiana  I'll  bet  you  I  kin 
induce  Georgia  to  throw  off  every  blamed  tittle 
he's  got  in  stock.  And  then  ef  Indiana  kin  dig 
up  another  of  them  delightful  teacups  of  his'n 
I  believe  I  kin  guarantee  that  Kintucky  and 
Georgia  will  join  him  in  pourin'  a  small  but 
nourishin'  libation  upon  the  altar  of  friendship, 
not  to  mention  the  thresholds  of  a  reunited 
country.  Ain't  I  got  the  right  notion,  boys?  Of 
course  I  have!  And  then,  as  soon  as  we-all  git 
settled  down  agin  comfortable  I'm  goin'  to  tell 
you  two  boys  something  mighty  interestin' 
that  come  up  oncet  when  I  was  on  hand 
and  heared  the  whole  thing.  Did  I  mention 
to  you  before  that  I  belonged  to  King's  Hell 
Hounds?" 

Diplomacy  surely  lost  an  able  advocate  in  the 
spring  of  1865  when  Sergeant  Bagby  laid  down 
the  sword  to  take  up  retail  groceries.  As  sooth 
ing  oil  upon  roiled  waters  his  words  fell;  they 
fell  even  as  sweet  unguents  upon  raw  wounds. 
And,  besides,  just  then  Mr.  Ezell  caught  a  whiff 
of  a  most  delectable  and  appealing  aroma  as 
the  sergeant,  on  concluding  his  remarks  with  a 
[221] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


broad-armed  gesture,  swished  his  teacup  directly 
under  Mr.  EzelPs  nose. 

Probably  not  more  than  ten  or  twelve  min 
utes  had  pleasantly  elapsed — it  usually  took  the 
sergeant  twenty  to  tell  in  all  its  wealth  of  detail 
the  story  of  what  General  Breckinridge  said  to 
General  Buckner,  and  what  General  Buckner 
said  in  reply  to  General  Breckinridge,  and  he 
was  nowhere  near  the  delectable  climax  yet- 
when  an  interruption  came.  Into  the  ken  of 
the'se  three  old  men,  seated  in  a  row  upon  the 
parsonage  porch,  there  came  up  the  street  a 
pair  whose  gait  and  general  air  of  flurriment  and 
haste  instantly  caught  and  held  their  attention. 
Side  by  side  sped  a  young  woman  and  a  young 
man — a  girl  and  a  boy  rather,  for  she  looked  to 
be  not  more  than  eighteen  or,  say,  nineteen,  and 
he  at  the  most  not  more  than  twenty-one  or  so. 
Here  they  came,  getting  nearer,  half-running, 
panting  hard,  the  girl  with  her  hands  to  her 
breast,  and  both  of  them  casting  quick,  darting 
glances  backward  over  their  shoulders  as  though 
fearing  pursuit. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Bloomfield,  "all  the  excite 
ment  appears  to  be  happenin'  round  here  this 
afternoon.  I  wonder  now  what  ails  them  two 
young  people?  "  He  squinted  through  his  glasses 
at  the  nearing  couple.  "Why,  the  gal  is  that 
pore  little  Sally  Fannie  Gibson  that  lives  over 
here  on  the  next  street.  Do  tell  now!" 

He  rose;  so,  a  moment  later,  did  his  com- 
[222] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBYS     FEET 

panions,  for  the  youth  had  jerked  Doctor 
Grundy's  gate  open  and  both  of  them  were 
scudding  up  the  walk  toward  them.  Doubtless 
because  of  their  agitation  the  approaching  two 
seemed  to  notice  nothing  unusual  in  the  fact 
that  these  three  elderly  men,  rising  at  their  com 
ing,  should  each  be  holding  in  his  right  hand  a 
large  china  teacup,  and  that  one,  the  central 
figure  of  the  three,  and  the  largest  of  bulk, 
should  be  planted  ankle-deep  and  better  in  a 
small  green  tub,  rising  from  it  at  an  interested 
angle,  like  some  new  kind  of  plump,  round 
potted  plant. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  gasped  the  girl;  she  clung  to  the 
lowermost  post  of  the  step-rail.  "Where  is 
Doctor  Grundy,  please?  We  must  see  Doctor 
Grundy  right  away — right  this  minute!" 

"We  want  him  to  marry  us!"  exclaimed  the 
youth,  blurting  it  out. 

"We've  got  the  license,"  the  girl  said.  "Har 
vey's  got  it  in  his  pocket." 

"And  here  it  is!"  said  the  youth,  producing 
the  document  and  holding  it  outspread  in  a 
shaking  .  hand.  It  appeared  crumpled,  but 
valid. 

It  was  but  proper  that  Sergeant  Bagby,  in  his 
capacity  as  host  pro  tern,  should  do  the  neces 
sary  explaining. 

"Well  now,  young  lady  and  young  gentle 
man,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry  to  have  to  disap 
point  you — monstrous  sorry — but,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  the  Reverend  Doctor  Grundy  ain't 
[223] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


here;  in  fact,  we  ain't  lookin'  fur  him  back  fur 
quite  some  time  yit." 

"He  is  reunionisin'  at  the  Pastime  Skating 
Rink,"  volunteered  Mr.  Bloomfield.  "You'll 
have  to  wait  a  while,  Sally  Fannie." 

"Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  "we  can't  wait — we  just 
can't  wait!  We  were  counting  on  him.  And 
now Oh,  what  shall  we  do,  Harvey?" 

Shrinking  up  against  the  railing  she  wrung 
her  hands.  The  sergeant  observed  that  she 
was  a  pretty  little  thing — small  and  shabby, 
but  undeniably  pretty,  even  in  her  present  state 
of  fright.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  The 
boy  was  trembling. 

"You'd  both  better  come^  in  and  take 
a  cheer  and  ca'm  yourselves,"  said  the  ser 
geant.  "Let's  talk  it  over  and  see  whut  we-all 
kin  do." 

"I  tell  you  we  can't  wait!"  gulped  the  girl, 
beginning  to  sob  in  earnest.  "My  stepfather  is 
liable  to  come  any  minute!  I'm  as  'fraid  as 
death  of  him.  He's  found  out  about  the  license 
— he's  looking  for  us  now  to  stop  us.  Oh,  Har 
vey!  Harvey!  And  this  was  our  only  chance!" 
She  turned  to  her  sweetheart  and  he  put  both 
his  arms  round  her  protectingly. 

"I  know  that  stepfather  of  yours,"  put  in 
Mr.  Bloomfield,  in  a  tone  which  indicated  that 
he  did  not  know  much  about  him  that  was  good 
or  wholesome.  "What's  his  main  objection  to 
you  and  this  young  fellow  gittin'  married? 

Ain't  you  both  of  age?" 

[224] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBYS     FEET 

"Yes,  we  are — both  of  us;  but  he  don't  want 
me  to  marry  at  all,"  burst  from  the  girl.  "He 
just  wants  me  to  stay  at  home  and  slave  and 
slave  and  slave!  And  he  don't  like  Harvey — 
he  hates  him!  Harvey  hasn't  been  living  here 
very  long,  and  he  pretends  he  don't  know  any 
thing  about  Har-rr-r-vey." 

She  stretched  the  last  word  out  in  a  pitiful, 
long-drawn  quaver. 

"He  don't  like  Harvey,  eh?"  repeated  Mr. 
Bloomfield.  "Well,  that's  one  thing  in  Harvey's 
favour  anyway.  Young  man,"  he  demanded 
briskly,  "kin  you  support  a  wife?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  spoke  up  Harvey;  "I  can.  I've 
got  a  good  job  and  I'm  making  good  pay — I'm 
in  the  engineering  crew  that  came  down  from 
Chicago  last  month  to  survey  the  new  short 
line  over  to  Knoxville." 

"Oh,  what  are  we  wasting  all  this  time  for?" 
broke  in  the  desperate  Sally  Fannie.  "Don't 
you-all  know — didn't  I  tell  you  that  he's  right 
close  behind  us?  And  he'll  kill  Harvey!  I 
know  he  will — and  then  I'll  die  too!  Oh,  don't 
be  standing  there  talking!  Tell  us  what  to  do, 
somebody — or  show  us  where  to  hide!" 

Mr.  Bloomfield's  dappled  hand  waggled  his 
brindled  whiskers  agitatedly.  Mr.  Ezell  tugged 
at  his  hickory  neckband;  very  possibly  his 
thoughts  were  upon  that  similar  situation  of  a 
Northern  wooer  and  a  Southern  maid  as  de 
picted  in  the  lately  interrupted  film  drama 
entitled  At  the  Cannon's  Mouth.  Like  a  teth- 
[225] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


ered   pachyderm,  Sergeant  Bagby  swayed  his 
form  upon  his  stationary  underpinning. 

"Little  gal,  I  most  certainly  do  wisht  there 
was  something  I  could  do!"  began  Mr.  Bloom- 
field,  the  spirit  of  romance  all  aglow  within  his 
elderly  and  doubtless  freckled  bosom. 

"Well,  there  is,  Major!"  shouted  the  sergeant 
suddenly.  "Shore  as  gun's  iron,  there's  some- 
thin'  you  kin  do!  Didn't  you  tell  us  boys  not 
half  an  hour  ago  you  was  a  jestice  of  the  peace?  " 

"Yes,  I  did!" 

"Then  marry  'em  yourself!"  It  wasn't  a 
request — it  was  a  command,  whoopingly,  tri 
umphantly  given. 

"Cumrud,"  said  Mr.  Bloomfield,  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  it — why,  so  I  could!" 

"Oh,  could  you?"  Sally  Fannie's  head  came 
up  and  her  cry  had  hope  in  it  now.  "And  would 
you  do  it — right  quick?" 

Unexpected  stage  fright  overwhelmed  Mr. 
Bloomfield. 

"I've  took  the  oath  of  office,  tubby  sure — 
but  I  ain't  never  performed  no  marriage  cere 
mony — I  don't  even  remember  how  it  starts," 
he  confessed. 

"Think  it  up  as  you  go  'long,"  advised  Ser 
geant  Bagby. 

"Whutever  you  say  is  bindin'  on  all  parties 
concerned — I  know  that  much  law."  It  was 
the  first  time  since  the  runaways  arrived  that 
Mr.  Ezell  had  broken  silence,  but  his  words  had 

potency  and  pith. 

[226] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     B  A  G  B  Y?S     FEET 

"But  there  has  got  to  be  witnesses — two 
witnesses/'  parried  Mr.  Bloomfield,  still  filled 
with  the  buck-ague  qualms  of  the  amateur. 

"  Whut's  the  matter  with  me  and  him  fur  wit 
nesses?"  cried  Sergeant  Bagby,  pointing  toward 
Mr.  Ezell.  He  wrestled  a  thin  gold  band  off 
over  a  stubborn  finger  joint.  "Here's  even  a 
weddin'  ring!" 

The  boy,  who  had  been  peering  down  the 
silent  street,  with  a  tremulous  hand  cupped 
over  his  anxious  eyes,  gave  a  little  gasp  of  de 
spair  and  plucked  at  the  girl's  sleeve.  She 
turned — and  saw  then  what  he  had  already 
seen. 

"Oh,  it's  too  late!  It's  too  late!"  she  qua 
vered,  cowering  down.  "There  he  comes  yon 
der!" 

"  'Tain't  no  sech  of  a  thing!"  snapped  Ser 
geant  Bagby,  actively  in  command  of  the  situa 
tion.  "You  two  young  ones  come  right  up  here 
on  this  porch  and  git  behind  me  and  take  hands. 
Indiana,  perceed  with  your  ceremony!  Georgia 
and  Kintucky,  stand  guard ! "  With  big  spread- 
eagle  gestures  he  shepherded  the  elopers  into  the 
shelter  of  his  own  wide  bulk. 

A  man  with  a  red,  passionate  face  and  mean, 
squinty  eyes,  who  ran  along  the  nearer  side 
walk,  looking  this  way  and  that,  saw  indistinctly 
through  the  vines  the  pair  he  sought,  and,  clear 
ing  the  low  fence  at  a  bound,  he  came  tearing 
across  the  grassplot,  his  heels  tearing  deep 
gouges  in  the  turf.  His  voice  gurgled  hoarsely 
[227] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


in  his  throat  as  he  tried  to  utter — all  at  once — 
commands  and  protests,  threats  and  curses. 

From  somewhere  behind  Sergeant  Bagby's 
broad  back  came  the  last  feebly  technical  ob 
jection  of  the  officiating  functionary : 

"But,  cumruds,  somebody's  got  to  give  the 
bride  away!" 

"I  give  the  bride  away,  dad-gum  you!" 
blared  Sergeant  Bagby  at  the  top  of  his  vocal 
register.  "King's  Hell  Hounds  give  the  bride 
away!" 

Thus,  over  his  shoulder,  did  Sergeant  Bagby 
give  the  bride  away;  and  then  he  faced  front, 
with  chest  expanded  and  the  light  of  battle  in 
his  eyes. 

Vociferating,  blasphemous,  furious,  Sally  Fan- 
nie's  tyrant  charged  the  steps  and  then  recoiled 
at  their  foot.  A  lean,  sinewy  old  man  in  a  hick 
ory  shirt  barred  his  way,  and  just  beyond  this 
barrier  a  stout  old  man  with  his  feet  in  a  foot- 
tub  loomed  both  large  and  formidable.  For 
the  moment  baffled,  he  gave  voice  to  vain  and 
profane  foolishness. 

"Stop  them  two!"  he  yelled,  his  rage  making 
him  almost  inarticulate.  "She  ain't  of  age — 
and  even  ef  she  is  I  ain't  agoin'  to  have  this!" 

"Say,  ain't  you  got  no  politeness  a'tall!" 
inquired  Mr.  Ezell,  of  Georgia.  "Don't  you 
see  you're  interruptin'  the  holy  rites  of  matri 
mony — carry  in'  on  thataway?" 

"That's  whut  I  aim  to  do,  blame  you!" 
howled  the  other,  now  sensing  for  the  first  time 
[  228  ] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY's     FEET 

the  full  import  of  the  situation.  "I'll  matri 
mony  her,  the  little—  He  spat  out  the 
foulest  word  our  language  yields  for  fouler 
tongues  to  use.  "That  ain't  all — I'll  cut  the 
heart  out  of  the  man  that  interferes ! " 

Driving  his  right  hand  into  his  right  trousers 
pocket  he  cleared  the  three  lower  steps  at  a 
bound  and  teetered  upon  his  toes  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  fourth  one. 

In  the  act  of  making  his  hand  into  a  fist  Mr. 
Ezell  discovered  he  could  not  do  so  by  reason 
of  his  fingers  being  twined  in  the  handle  of  a 
large,  extra-heavy  ironstone-china  teacup.  So 
he  did  the  next  best  thing — he  threw  the  cup 
with  all  his  might,  which  was  considerable.  At 
close  range  this  missile  took  the  enemy  squarely 
in  the  chest  and  staggered  him  back.  And  as  he 
staggered  back,  clutching  to  regain  his  balance, 
Mr.  Bloomfield,  standing  somewhat  in  the  rear 
and  improvising  as  fast  as  his  tongue  could  wag, 
uttered  the  concluding,  fast-binding  words: 

"Therefore  I  pernounce  you  man  and  wife; 
and,  whatever  you  do,  don't  never  let  nobody 
come  betwixt  you,  asunderin'  you  apart!" 

With  a  lightning-fast  dab  of  his  whiskers  he 
kissed  the  bride — he  had  a  flashing  intuition 
that  this  was  required  by  the  ritual — shoved 
the  pair  inside  Doctor  Grundy's  front  hall, 
slammed  the  door  behind* them,  snatched  up 
Sergeant  Bagby's  rusted  rifle  from  where  it 
leaned  against  Doctor  Grundy's  porch  post,  and 
sprang  forward  in  a  posture  combining  defence 
[  229  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


and  offense.  All  in  a  second  or  two  Mr.  Bloom- 
field  did  this. 

Even  so,  his  armed  services  were  no  longer 
required;  for  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  stepped 
nimbly  out  of  his  tub,  picked  it  up  in  both  hands 
and  turned  it  neatly  yet  crashingly  upside  down 
upon  the  head  of  the  bride's  step-parent — so 
that  its  contents,  which  had  been  cold  and  were 
still  coolish,  cascaded  in  swishing  gallons  down 
over  his  person,  effectually  chilling  the  last  war 
like  impulse  of  his  drenched  and  dripping  bosom, 
and  rendering  him  in  one  breath  whipped, 
choked  and  tamed. 

"With  the  compliments  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy!"  said  Sergeant  Bagby,  so  doing. 

The  shadows  on  the  grass  lay  lank  and  at 
tenuated  when  the  folks  came  back  from  the 
Pastime  Rink.  Sergeant  Bagby  sat  alone  upon 
Doctor  Grundy's  porch.  There  were  puddles 
of  spilt  water  on  porch  and  step  and  the  walk 
below,  and  a  green  foot- tub,  now  empty,  stood 
on  its  side  against  the  railings.  The  sergeant 
was  drawing  his  white  yarn  socks  on  over  his 
water-bleached  shanks. 

"Well,  suh,  Jimmy,"  said  Judge  Priest  as  he 
came  up  under  the  vines,  "you  certainly  missed 
it  this  evenin'.  That  was  the  best  speech  Gen'l 
Tige  Gracey  ever  made  in  his  whole  life.  It  cer 
tainly  was  a  wonder  and  a  jo-darter!" 

"Whut  was  the  subject,  cumrud?"  asked 
Sergeant  Bagby. 

[230] 


SERGEANT     JIMMY     BAGBY?S     FEET 

"Fraternal  Strife  and  Brotherly  Love,"  re 
plied  the  judge.  "He  jest  natchelly  dug  up  the 
hatchet  and  then  he  reburied  her  ag'in — re- 
buried  her  miles  deep  under  Cherokee  roses  and 
magnolia  blossoms.  But  how's  your  feet?  I 
reckon  you've  had  a  purty  toler'ble  lonesome 
time  settin'  here,  ain't  you?" 

"I  see — love  and  war!  War  and  love,"  com 
mented  the  sergeant  softly. 

Before  answering  further,  he  raised  his  head 
and  glanced  over  the  top  of  the  intervening 
hedge  toward  the%ouse  next  door.  From  its 
open  door  issued  confused  sounds  of  which  he 
alone  knew  the  secret — it  was  Georgia  trying  to 
teach  Indiana  the  words  and  music  of  the  song 
entitled  Old  Virginny  Never  Tire! 

"Oh,  my  feet  are  mighty  nigh  cured,"  said 
he;  "and  I  ain't  had  such  a  terrible  lonesome 
time  as  you  might  think  fur  either — cumrud." 

"That's  the  second  time  you've  called  me 
that,"  said  Judge  Priest  suspiciously.  "Whut 
does  it  mean?" 

"Oh,  that?  That's  a  f ureign  word  I  picked  up 
to-day."  And  Sergeant  Bagby  smiled  gently. 
"It's  a  pet  name  the  Yankees  use  when  they 
mean  pardner!" 


[231] 


VI 
ACCORDING    TO    THE    CODE 


THE  most  important  thing  about  Quintus 
Q.  Montjoy,  Esquire,  occurred  a  good 
many  years  before  he  was  born.  It 
was  his  grandfather. 

In  the  natural  course  of  things  practically 
all  of  us  have,  or  have  had,  grandfathers.  The 
science  of  eugenics,  which  is  comparatively 
new,  and  the  rule  of  species,  which  is  somewhat 
older,  both  teach  us  that  without  grandfathers 
there  can  be  no  grandchildren.  But  only  one 
in  a  million  is  blessed  even  unto  the  third  gen 
eration  by  having  had  such  a  grandfather  as 
Quintus  Q.  Montjoy  had.  That,  indeed,  was 
a  fragrant  inheritance  and  by  day  and  by 
night  the  legatee  inhaled  of  its  perfumes.  I 
refer  to  his  grandfather  on  his  father's  side,  the 
late  Braxton  Montjoy. 

The  grandfather  on  the  maternal  side  must 
have  been  a  person  of  abundant  consequence 
too,  else  he  would  never  have  begat  him  a 
daughter  worthy  to  be  mated  with  the  progeny 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

of  that  other  illustrious  man;  but  of  him  you 
heard  little  or  nothing.  Being  long  deceased, 
his  memory  was  eclipsed  in  the  umbra  of  a  more 
compelling  personality.  It  would  seem  that 
in  all  things,  in  all  that  he  did  and  said  in  this 
life,  Braxton  Montjoy  was  exactly  what  the 
proud  grandsire  of  a  justly  proud  grandscion 
should  be.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  the  Old 
School  in  case  that  conveys  anything  to  your 
understanding;  and  a  first  family  of  Virginia. 
He  was  a  captain  of  volunteers  in  the  War  of 
Eighteen-Twelve.  He  was  a  colonel  in  the 
Mexican  war;  that  though  was  after  he  em 
igrated  out  over  the  Wilderness  Trail  to  the 
newer  and  cruder  commonwealth  of  Kentucky. 
He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  our  town  and  its 
first  mayor  in  that  far-distant  time  when  it 
emerged  from  the  muddied  cocoon  of  a  wood- 
landing  on  the  river  bank  and  became  a  corpora 
tion  with  a  charter  and  a  board  of  trustees  and 
all.  Later  along,  in  the  early  fifties,  he  served 
our  district  in  the  upper  branch  of  the  State 
Legislature.  In  the  Civil  war  he  would  un 
doubtedly  have  been  a  general — his  descendant 
gainsaying  as  much — except  for  the  unfor 
tunate  circumstance  of  his  having  passed  away 
at  an  advanced  age  some  years  prior  to  the 
beginning  of  that  direful  conflict.  Wherefore 
the  descendant  in  question,  being  determined 
that  his  grandfather  should  not  be  cheated  of 
his  due  military  meed  by  death,  conferred  an 

honourary  brevet  upon  him,  anyway. 

[  233  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Nor  was  that  all  that  might  be  said  of  this 
most  magnificent  of  ancestors — by  no  means 
was  it  all.  Ever  and  always  was  he  a  person 
of  lofty  ideals  and  mountainous  principles. 
He  never  drank  his  dram  in  a  groggery  nor 
discussed  the  affairs  of  the  day  upon  the  public 
highway.  Spurning  such  new-fangled  and  ef- 
fetely-luxurious  modes  of  transportation  as 
carriages,  he  went  horseback  whenever  he 
went,  and  wheresoever.  In  the  summer  time 
when  the  family  made  the  annual  pilgrimage 
back  across  the  mountains  to  Old  White  Sul 
phur  he  rode  the  entire  distance,  both  going 
and  coming,  upon  a  white  stallion  named 
Fairfax.  To  the  day  of  his  death  he  chewed 
his  provender  with  his  own  teeth  and  looked 
upon  the  world-at-large  through  eyes,  unlensed. 

Yet  he  might  have  owned  a  hundred  sets  of 
teeth  or  five  hundred  pairs  of  spectacles,  had 
he  been  so  minded,  for  to  him  appertained 
eighty  slaves  and  four  thousand  acres  of  the 
fattest  farm  lands  to  be  found  in  the  rich  bot 
toms  of  our  county.  War  and  Lincoln's 
Proclamation  freed  the  slaves  but  the  lands 
remained,  intact  and  unmortgaged,  to  make 
easier  the  pathways  of  those  favoured  beings  of 
his  blood  who  might  come  after  him.  Finally, 
he  was  a  duellist  of  a  great  and  fearsome  re 
pute;  an  authority  recognised  and  quoted,  in 
the  ceremonials  of  the  code.  In  four  historic 
meetings  upon  the  field  of  honour  he  figured  as 
a  principal;  and  in  at  least  three  more  as  a 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

second.  Under  his  right  shoulder  blade,  a 
cousin  of  President  Thomas  Jefferson  carried 
to  his  grave  a  lump  of  lead  which  had  been 
deposited  there  by  this  great  man  one  fair  fine 
morning  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia,  during  the 
adjudication,  with  pistols,  of  a  dispute  which 
grew  out  of  a  difference  of  opinion  touching 
upon  the  proper  way  of  curing  a  Smithfield  ham. 
We  did  not  know  of  these  things  at  first 
hand.  Only  a  few  elderly  inhabitants  re 
membered  Braxton  Montjoy  as  he  had  appeared 
in  the  flesh.  To  the  rest  of  our  people  he  was 
a  tradition,  yet  a  living  one,  and  this  largely 
through  virtue  of  the  conversational  activities 
of  Quintus  Q.  Montjoy,  the  grandson  aforesaid, 
aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Marcella  Quisten- 
bury.  I  should  be  depriving  an  estimable 
lady  of  a  share  of  the  credit  due  her  did  I  omit 
some  passing  mention  of  Mrs.  Quistenbury 
from  this  narrative.  She  was  one  who  spe 
cialised  in  genealogy.  There  is  one  such  as  she 
in  every  Southern  town  and  in  most  New  Eng 
land  ones.  Give  her  but  a  single  name,  a 
lone  and  solitary  distant  kinsman  to  start  off 
with,  and  for  you  she  would  create,  out  of  the 
rich  stores  of  her  mind,  an  entire  family  tree, 
complete  from  its  roots,  deeply  implanted  in 
the  soil  of  native  aristocracy,  to  the  uttermost 
tip  of  its  far-spreading  and  ramifying  branches. 
In  the  delicate  matter  of  superior  breeding  she 
liberally  accorded  the  Montjoy  connection  first 
place  among  the  old  families  of  our  end  of  the 
[235] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


state.  So,  too,  with  equal  freedom,  did  the 
last  of  the  Mont  joys,  which  made  it  practically 
unanimous  and  left  the  honour  of  the  lineage 
in  competent  hands. 

For  Quintus  Q. — alas  and  alackaday — was  the 
last  of  his  glorious  line.  Having  neither  sisters 
nor  brothers  and  being  unmarried  he  abode 
alone  beneath  the  ancestral  roof  tree.  It  was 
not  exactly  the  ancestral  roof  tree,  if  you  wish 
me  to  come  right  down  to  facts.  The  original 
homestead  burned  down  long  years  before, 
but  the  present  structure  stood  upon  its  site 
and  was  in  all  essential  regards  a  faithful  copy 
of  its  predecessor. 

It  might  be  said  of  our  fellow-townsman — 
and  it  was — that  he  lived  and  breathed  and 
had  his  being  in  the  shadow  of  his  grandfather. 
Among  the  ribald  and  the  irreverent  stories 
circulated  was  one  to  the  effect  that  he  talked 
of  him  in  his  sleep.  He  talked  of  him  pretty 
assiduously  when  awake;  there  wasn't  any 
doubt  of  that.  As  you  entered  his  home  you 
were  confronted  in  the  main  hall  by  a  large  oil 
portrait  of  an  elderly  gentleman  of  austere 
mien,  wearing  a  swallow-fork  coat  and  a  neck 
muffler  and  with  his  hair  brushed  straight  back 
from  the  forehead  in  a  sweep,  just  as  Andrew 
Jackson  brushed  his  back.  You  were  bound 
to  notice  this  picture,  the  very  first  thing.  If 
by  any  chance  you  didn't  notice  it,  Quintus 
Q.  found  a  way  of  directing  your  attention  to 
it.  Then  you  observed  the  family  resemblance. 
[236] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

Quintus  Q.,  standing  there  alongside,  held  his 
hand  on  his  hip  after  exactly  the  same  fashion 
that  his  grandfather  held  his  hand  on  his  hip  in 
the  pictured  pose.  It  was  startling  really — 
the  reproduction  of  this  trait  by  hereditary 
impulse.  Quintus  Q.  thought  there  was  some 
thing  about  the  expression  of  the  eyes,  too. 

If  during  the  evening  some  one  mentioned 
horses — and  what  assemblage  of  male  Ken- 
tuckians  ever  bided  together  for  any  length  of 
time  without  some  one  mentioning  horses? — 
the  host's  memory  was  instantly  quickened  in 
regard  to  the  white  stallion  named  Fairfax. 
Fairfax  achieved  immortality  beyond  other 
horses  of  his  period  through  Quintus  Q.  Some 
went  so  far  as  to  intimate  that  Mr.  Montjoy 
made  a  habit  of  serving  hams  upon  his  table 
for  a  certain  and  especial  purpose.  You  had 
but  to  refer  in  complimentary  terms  to  the 
flavour  of  the  curly  shavings-thin  slice  which 
he  had  deposited  upon  your  plate.  « 

"Speaking  of  hams,"  he  would  say — "speak 
ing  of  hams,  I  am  reminded  of  my  grandfather, 
the  old  General — General  Braxton  Montjoy, 
you  remember.  The  General  fought  one  of 
his  duels — he  fought  four,  you  know,  and  acted 
as  second  in  three  others — over  a  ham.  Or 
perhaps  I  should  say  over  the  process  of  smok 
ing  a  ham  with  hickory  wood.  His  antagonist 
was  no  less  a  person  than  a  cousin  of  President 
Thomas  Jefferson.  The  General  thought  his 
veracity  had  been  impugned  and  he  called  the 
[237] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


other  gentleman  out  and  shot  him  through  the 
shoulder.  Afterwards  I  believe  they  became 
great  friends.  Ah,  sir,  those  were  the  good  old 
days  when  a  Southern  gentleman  had  a  proper 
jealousy  of  his  honour.  If  one  gentleman 
doubted  another  gentleman's  word  there  was 
no  exchange  of  vulgar  billingsgate,  no  un 
seemly  brawling  upon  the  street.  The  Code 
offered  a  remedy.  One  gentleman  called  the 
other  gentleman  out.  Sometimes  I  wish  that 
I  might  have  lived  in  those  good  old  days." 

Sometimes  others  wished  that  he  might  have, 
too,  but  I  state  that  fact  in  parenthesis. 

Then  he  would  excuse  himself  and  leave  the 
table  and  enter  the  library  for  a  moment, 
returning  with  a  polished  rosewood  case  borne 
reverently  in  his  two  hands  and  he  would  put 
the  case  down  and  dust  it  with  a  handkerchief 
and  unlock  it  with  a  brass  key  which  he  carried 
upon  his  watch  chain  and  from  their  bed  of 
faded  velveteen  within,  bring  forth  two  old 
duelling  pistols  with  long  barrels,  and  carved 
scrolls  on  their  butts  and  hammers  that  stood 
up  high  like  the  ears  of  a  startled  colt.  And  he 
would  bid  you  to  decipher  for  yourself  the  name 
of  his  grandfather  inscribed  upon  the  brass 
trigger  guards.  You  were  given  to  understand 
that  in  a  day  of  big  men,  Braxton  Montjoy 
towered  as  a  giant  amongst  them. 

Aside  from  following  the  profession  of  being 
a  grandson,  Quintus  Q.  had  no  regular  business. 
There  was  a  sign  reading  Real  Estate  and  Loans 
[238] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE      CODE 

upon  the  glass  door  of  his  one-room  suite  in  the 
Planters'  Bank  building,  but  he  didn't  keep 
regular  hours  there.  With  the  help  of  an  agent, 
he  looked  after  the  collecting  of  the  rents  for 
his  town  property  and  the  letting  upon  shares 
or  leaseholds  of  his  river-bottom  farms;  but 
otherwise  you  might  say  his  chief  occupation 
was  that  of  being  a  sincere  and  conscientious 
descendant  of  a  creditable  forebear. 

So  much  for  the  grandfather.  So  much,  at 
this  moment,  for  the  grandson.  Now  we  are 
going  to  get  through  the  rind  into  the  meat 
of  our  tale: 

As  may  be  recalled,  State  Senator  Horace 
K.  Maydew,  of  our  town  and  county,  being  a 
leader  of  men  and  of  issues,  once  upon  a  time 
hankered  mightily  to  serve  the  district  in  Con 
gress  and  in  the  moment  that  he  could  almost 
taste  of  triumph  accomplished  had  the  cup 
dashed  from  his  lips  through  the  instrumentality 
of  one  who,  locally,  was  fancied  as  being  rather 
better  than  a  dabster  at  politics,  himself.  Dur 
ing  the  months  which  succeeded  this  defeat, 
the  mortified  Maydew  nursed  a  sharpened 
grudge  toward  the  enemy,  keeping  it  barbed 
and  fletched  against  the  time  when  he  might 
let  fly  with  it.  Presently  an  opportunity  for 
reprisals  befell.  May  dew's  term  as  State  Sen 
ator  neared  its  close.  For  personal  reasons, 
which  he  found  good  and  sufficient,  the  uv 
cumbent  did  not  offer  as  a  candidate  to  suc- 
ceed  himself.  But  quite  naturally,  and  per- 
[239] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


haps  quite  properly,  he  desired  to  name  his 
successor.  Privily  he  began  casting  about 
him  for  a  likely  and  a  suitable  candidate,  which 
to  the  senator's  understanding  meant  one  who 
would  be  biddable,  tractable  and  docile.  Be 
fore  he  had  quite  agreed  with  himself  upon  a 
choice,  young  Tobias  Houser  came  out  into  the 
open  as  an  aspirant  for  the  Democratic  nomina 
tion,  and  when  he  heard  the  news  Senator  May- 
dew  re-honed  his  hate  to  a  razor-edge.  For 
young  Tobe  Houser,  who  had  been  a  farmer- 
boy  and  then  a  country  school  teacher  and 
who  now  had  moved  to  town  and  gone  into 
business,  was  something  else  besides:  He  was 
the  nephew  of  Judge  Priest,  the  only  son  of  the 
judge's  dead  sister.  It  was  the  judge's  money 
that  had  helped  the  young  man  through  the 
State  university.  Undoubtedly — so  May  dew 
read  the  signs  of  the  times — it  was  the  judge's 
influence  which  now  brought  the  youngster 
forth  as  an  aspirant  for  public  office.  In  the 
Houser  candidacy  Maydew  saw,  or  thought  he 
saw,  another  attack  upon  his  fiefship  on  the 
party  organisation  and  the  party  machinery. 

On  an  evening  of  the  same  week  in  which 
Tobe  Houser  inserted  his  modestly-worded 
announcement  card  in  the  Daily  Evening  News, 
Senator  Maydew  called  to  conference — or  to 
concurrence — two  lieutenants  who  likewise  had 
cause  to  be  stalwart  supporters  of  his  policies. 
The  meeting  took  place  in  the  living  room  of 
the  Maydew  home.  When  the  drinks  had  been 
[240] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE      CODE 

sampled  and  the  cigars  had  been  lighted 
Senator  Maydew  came  straight  to  the  business 
in  hand: 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I've  got  a 
candidate — a  man  none  of  us  ever  thought  of 
before.  How  does  the  name  of  Quintus  Q. 
Montjoy  seem  to  strike  you?" 

Mr.  Barnhill  looked  at  Mr.  Bonnin,  and  Mr. 
Bonnin  looked  back  at  Mr.  Barnhill.  Then 
both  of  them  looked  at  Maydew. 

"Montjoy,  eh?"  said  Barnhill,  doubtfully, 
seeming  not  to  have  heard  aright. 

"Quintus  Q.  Montjoy  you  said,  didn't  you?" 
asked  Bonnin  as  though  there  had  been  any 
number  of  Montjoys  to  choose  from.  He 
spoke  without  enthusiasm. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Maydew  briskly, 
"Quintus  Q.  Montjoy,  Esquire.  Any  objec 
tions  to  him  that  you  can  think  of,  off-hand?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Barnhill,  who  was  large  of 
person  and  slow  of  speech,  "he  ain't  never  done 
anything." 

"If  I'm  any  judge  he  never  will  do  anything 
— much,"  supplemented  Mr.  Bonnin,  who  was 
by  way  of  being  small  and  nervous. 

"You've  said  it — both  of  you,"  stated  their 
leader,  catching  them  up  with  a  snap.  "He 
never  has  done  anything.  That  gives  him  a 
clean  record  to  run  on.  He  never  will  do  any 
thing — on  his  own  hook,  I  mean.  That'll 
make  him  a  safe,  sound,  reliable  man  to  have 
representing  this  district  up  yonder  at  Frank- 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


fort.  Last  session  they  licked  the  Stickney 
warehouse  bill  for  us.  This  season  it'll  come  up 
again  for  passage.  I  guarantee  here  and  now 
that  Quint  Montjoy  will  vote  right  on  that 
proposition  and  all  other  propositions  that'll 
come  up.  He'll  vote  right  because  we'll  tell  him 
how  to  vote.  I  know  him  from  the  skin  out." 

"He's  so  powerfully  pompious  and  bumpious 
— so  kind  of  cocksure  and  high-an'-mighty," 
said  Mr.  Barnhill.  "D'ye  reckin,  Hod,  as  how 
he'll  stand  without  hitchin'?" 

"I'll  guarantee  that,  too,"  said  Senator  May- 
dew,  with  his  left  eyelid  flickering  down  over 
his  left  eye  in  the  ghost  of  a  wink.  "He  don't 
know  yet  that  he's  going  to  be  our  candidate. 
Nobody  knows  it  yet  but  you  and  me.  But 
when  he  finds  out  from  us  that  he's  going  to 
have  a  chance  to  rattle  round  in  the  same  seat 
that  his  revered  granddaddy  once  ornamented 
— well,  just  you  watch  him  arise  and  shine. 
There's  another  little  thing  that  you've  over 
looked.  He's  got  money, — plenty  of  it;  as 
much  money  as  any  man  in  this  town  has  got. 
He's  not  exactly  what  I'd  call  a  profligate  or  a 
spendthrift.  You  may  have  noticed  that  ex 
cept  when  he  was  spending  it  on  himself  he's 
very  easy  to  control  in  money  matters.  But 
when  we  touch  a  match  to  his  ambition  and  it 
flares  up,  he'll  dig  down  deep  and  produce 
freely — or  I  miss  my  guess.  For  once  we'll 
have  a  campaign  fund  with  some  real  money 

behind  it." 

[242  ] 


ACCORDING     TO      THE      CODE 

His  tone  changed  and  began  to  drip  rancour: 

"By  Judas,  I'll  put  up  some  of  my  own 
money!  This  is  one  time  when  I'm  not  count 
ing  the  cost.  I'm  going  to  beat  that  young 
lummox  of  a  Houser,  if  it's  the  last  thing  I  do. 
I'm  going  to  rub  his  nose  in  the  mud.  You 
two  know  without  my  telling  you  why  I'd 
rather  see  Houser  licked  than  any  other  man  on 
earth — except  one.  And  you  know  who  that 
one  is.  We  can't  get  at  Priest  yet — that 
chance  will  come  later.  But  we  can  get  his 
precious  nephew,  and  I'm  the  man  that's 
going  to  get  him.  And  Quint  Montjoy  is  the 
man  I'm  going  to  get  him  with." 

"Well,  Hod,  jest  ez  you  say,"  assented  Mr. 
Barnhill  dutifully.  "I  was  only  jest  askin', 
that's  all.  You  sort  of  tuck  me  off  my  feet  at 
fust,  but  the  way  you  put  it  now,  it  makes 
ever 'thing  look  mighty  promisin'.  How  about 
you,  Wilbur?"  and  he  turned  to  Mr.  Bonnin. 

"Oh,  I'm  agreeable,"  chimed  Mr.  Bonnin. 
"Only  don't  make  any  mistake  about  one 
thing — Houser's  got  a-plenty  friends.  He'll 
give  us  a  fight  all  right.  It  won't  be  any  walk 


over." 


"I  want  it  to  be  a  fight,  and  I  don't  want  it 
to  be  a  walk-over,  either,"  said  Senator  Maydew. 
"The  licking  we  give  him  will  be  all  the  sweeter, 
then." 

He  got  up  and  started  for  the  telephone  on 
the  wall. 

"I'll  just  call  up  and  see  if  our  man  is  at 
[243] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


home.  If  he  is,  we'll  all  three  step  over  there 
right  now  and  break  the  news  to  him,  that  the 
voice  of  the  people  has  been  lifted  in  an  irre 
sistible  and  clamorous  demand  for  him  to  be 
come  their  public  servant  at  his  own  expense." 

The  Senator  was  in  a  good  humour  again. 

"And  say,  Hod,  whilst  I'm  thinkin'  of  it," 
put  in  Mr.  Barnhill  sapiently,  "ef  he  should  be 
at  home  and  ef  we  should  go  over  there,  tell 
him  for  Goddle  Midey's  sake  not  to  drag  in 
that  late  lamentable  grandpaw  of  his'n,  more'n 
a  million  times  durin'  the  course  of  the  cam 
paign.  It's  all  right  mebbe  to  appeal  to  the 
old  famblies.  I  ain't  bearin'  ary  grudge  ag'inst 
old  famblies,  'though  I  ain't  never  found  the 
time  to  belong  to  one  of  'em  myself.  But  there's 
a  right  smart  chance  of  middle-aged  famblies 
and  even  a  few  toler'ble  new  famblies  in  this 
here  community.  And  them's  the  kind  that 
does  the  large  bulk  of  the  votin'  in  primary 
elections." 

We've  had  campaigns  and  campaigns  and 
then  more  and  yet  other  campaigns  in  our 
county.  We  had  them  every  year — and  we 
still  do.  Being  what  they  were  and  true  to 
their  breeding  the  early  settlers  started  run 
ning  for  office,  almost  before  the  Indians 
had  cleared  out  of  the  young  settlements. 
Politics  is  breath  to  the  nostrils  and  strong 
meat  to  the  bellies  of  grown  men  down  our 
way.  .  Found  among  us  are  persons  who  are 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

office-seekers  by  instinct  and  office-holders 
by  profession.  Whole  families,  from  one  gen 
eration  to  another,  from  father  to  son  and  from 
that  son  to  his  son  and  his  son's  son  become 
candidates  almost  as  soon  as  they  have  become 
voters.  You  expect  it  of  them  and  are  not 
disappointed.  Indeed,  this  same  is  true  of 
our  whole  state.  Times  change,  party  lines 
veer  and  snarl,  new  issues  come  up  and  flourish 
for  awhile  and  then  are  cut  down  again  to  make 
room  for  newer  crops  of  *newer  issues  still,  but 
the  Breckinridges  and  Clays,  the  Hardins  and 
Helms,  the  Breathitts  and  Trimbles,  the  Crit- 
tendons  and  Wickliffes,  go  on  forever  and 
ever  asking  the  support  of  their  fellow-Ken- 
tuckians  at  the  polls  and  frequently  are  vouch 
safed  it.  But  always  the  winner  has  cause  to 
know,  after  winning,  that  he  had  a  fight. 

As  goes  the  state  at  large,  so  goes  the  district 
and  the  precinct  and  the  ward.  As  I  was  say 
ing  just  now,  we  have  had  warm  campaigns 
before  now;  but  rarely  do  I  recall  a  campaign 
of  which  the  early  stages  showed  so  feverishly 
high  a  temperature  as  this  campaign  between 
Quintus  Q.  Montjoy  and  young  Tobias  Houser 
for  the  Democratic  nomination  for  State 
Senator.  You  see,  beneath  the  surface  of 
things,  a  woman's  personality  ran  in  the  under 
currents,  roiling  the  waters  and  soiling  the 
channel.  Her  name  of  course,  was  not  spoken 
on  the  hustings  or  printed  in  the  paper,  but  her 
influence  was  manifest,  nevertheless. 
[245] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


There  was  one  woman — and  perhaps  only 
one  in  all  that  community — who  felt  she  had 
abundant  cause  to  dislike  Judge  Priest  and  all 
that  pertained  to  him  by  ties  of  blood,  marriage, 
affection  or  a  common  interest.  And  this 
person  was  the  present  wife  of  the  Hon.  Horace 
K.  Maydew,  and  by  that  same  token  the  former 
wife  of  old  Mr.  Lysander  John  Curd.  Every 
time  she  saw  Congressman  Dabney  Prentiss 
passing  by,  grand  and  glorious  in  his  long- 
tailed  coat  and  his  broad  black  hat  and  his 
white  tie,  which  is  ever  the  mark  of  a  statesman 
who  is  working  at  the  trade,  she  harked  back 
to  that  day  when  Judge  Priest  had  obtruded 
his  obstinate  bulk  between  her  husband  and 
her  husband's  dearest  ambition;  and  she  re 
membered  that,  except  for  him,  she  might  now 
be  Mrs.  Congressman  Maydew,  going  to  White 
House  receptions  and  giving  dinners  for  sena 
tors  and  foreign  diplomats  and  cabinet  officers 
and  such.  And  her  thoughts  grew  bitter  as 
aloes;  and  with  rancour  and  rage  the  blood 
throbbed  in  her  wrists  until  her  bracelets  hurt 
her.  Being  minded  to  have  a  part  and  a  parcel 
in  the  undoing  of  the  Priest  plans,  she  meddled 
in  this  fight,  giving  to  Mr.  Montjoy  the 
benefit  of  her  counsel  and  her  open,  active 
advocacy. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  inclined  a  flattered 

ear  to  the  lady's  admonitions  rather  than  to  her 

husband's  subtler  chidings  that  Mr.  Montjoy 

confirmed  the  astute  Mr.  BarnhiU's  forebodings 

[246] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE      CODE 

and  refused  to  stand  without  hitching.  He 
backed  and  he  filled;  he  kicked  over  the  traces 
and  got  tangled  in  the  gears.  He  was,  as  it 
turned  out,  neither  bridle-wise  nor  harness- 
broken.  In  short  he  was  an  amateur  in  politics, 
with  an  amateur's  faults.  He  took  the  stump 
early,  which  was  all  well  and  good,  because  in 
Red  Gravel  county  if  a  candidate  can't  talk  to 
the  voter,  and  won't  try,  he  might  just  as  well 
fold  up  his  tents  like  the  Arab  and  take  his 
doll  rags  and  go  on  about  his  business,  if  he  has 
any  business.  But  against  the  guidance  and 
the  best  judgment  of  the  man  who  had  led  him 
forth  as  a  candidate,  he  accepted  a  challenge 
from  young  Houser  for  a  series  of  joint  debates; 
and  whilst  Mr.  Barnhill  and  Mr.  Bonnin  wagged 
their  respective  heads  in  silent  disapproval, 
he  repeatedly  and  persistently  made  proclama 
tion  in  public  places  and  with  a  loud  voice,  of 
the  obligation  which  the  community  still  owed 
his  illustrious  grandparent,  the  inference  being 
that  he  had  inherited  the  debt  and  expected 
to  collect  it  at  the  polls. 

It  is  likewise  possible  that  Candidate  Mont- 
joy  listened  over-much  to  the  well  meant  words 
of  Mr.  Calhoun  Tabscott.  This  Mr.  Calhoun 
Tabscott  esteemed  himself  a  master  hand  at 
things  political.  He  should  have  been,  at  that. 
One  time  or  another  he  had  been  on  opposite 
sides  of  every  political  fence;  other  times  he 
bestraddled  it.  He  had  been  a  Greenbacker, 
a  Granger,  and  a  Populist  and  once,  almost 
[247] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


but  not  quite,  a  Republican.  Occasions  were 
when,  in  rapid  succession,  he  flirted  with  the 
Single  Taxers,  and  then,  with  the  coy  reluctance 
of  one  who  is  half-converted,  harkened  to  the 
blandishments  of  the  Socialists.  Had  he  been 
old  enough  he  would  have  been  either  a  Know- 
Nothing  or  a  Whig — either  or  perhaps  both. 
In  1896  he  quit  the  Silver  Democrats  cold,  they 
having  obtusely  refrained  from  sending  him  as 
a  delegate  to  their  national  convention.  Six 
weeks  later  he  abandoned  the  Gold  Democrats 
to  their  fate  because  they  failed  to  nominate 
the  right  man  for  president.  It  was  commonly 
believed  he  voted  the  straight  Prohibition 
ticket  that  year — for  spite. 

In  the  matter  of  his  religious  convictions, 
Mr.  Tabscott  displayed  the  same  elasticity 
and  liberality  of  choice.  In  the  rival  fields  of 
theology  he  had  ranged  far,  grazing  lightly  as 
he  went.  When  the  Cumberland  Presbyterians 
put  chime  bells  in  their  spire,  thereby  interfer 
ing  with  his  Sunday  morning's  rest,  for  he  lived 
just  across  the  street,  he  took  his  letter  out  of 
the  church  and  thereafter  for  a  period  teetered 
on  the  verge  of  agnosticism,  even  going  so  far 
as  to  buy  the  works  of  Voltaire,  Paine  and 
Ingersol  combined  and  complete  in  six  large 
volumes.  He  worshipped  a  spell  with  the 
Episcopalians  and  once  during  a  space  of 
months,  the  Baptists  had  hopes  of  him.  Rumour 
had  it  that  he  finally  went  over  to  the  Metho- 
dists,  because  old  Mr.  Leatheritt,  of  the  Traders 
[248] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

National  Bank,  who  was  a  Baptist,  called  one 
of  his  loans. 

Now,  having  been  twice  with  Judge  Priest 
in  his  races  for  the  Circuit  Judgeship  and  twice 
against  him,  Mr.  Tabscott  espoused  the  Mont- 
joy  candidacy  and  sat  in  Mr.  Montjoy's  amen 
corner,  which,  indeed,  was  altogether  natural 
and  consistent,  since  the  Tabscotts,  as  an  old 
family,  dated  back  almost  as  far  and  soared 
almost  as  high  as  the  Montjoys.  There  had 
been  a  Tabscott  who  nearly  fought  a  duel  him 
self,  once.  He  sent  the  challenge  and  the  pre 
liminaries  were  arranged  but  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  a  magnanimous  impulse  triumphed  over 
his  lust  for  blood,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  ad 
versary's  wife  and  helpless  children,  he  decided 
to  spare  him.  Mr.  Tabscott  felt  that  as  be 
tween  him  and  Mr.  Montjoy  a  sentimental 
bond  existed.  Mr.  Montjoy  felt  it,  too;  and 
they  confabbed  much  together  regarding  ways, 
means  and  measures  somewhat  to  the  annoy 
ance  of  Senator  Maydew  who  held  fast  to  the 
principle  that  if  a  master  have  but  one  man, 
the  man  should  have  but  one  master. 

The  first  of  the  joint  debates  took  place, 
following  a  barbecue,  at  Gum  Spring  School- 
house  in  the  northermost  corner  of  the  county 
and  the  second  took  place  three  days  later  at 
the  Old  Market  House  in  town,  a  large  crowd 
attending.  Acrimony  tinctured  Mr.  Mont- 
joy's  utterances  from  the  outset.  Recrimina- 
tion  seemed  his  forte — that  and  the  claims  of 
[249] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


honourable  antiquity  as  expressed  in  the  person 
of  its  posterity  upon  a  grateful  and  remembering 
constituency.  He  bore  heavily  upon  the  fact 
— or  rather  the  allegation — that  Judge  Priest 
was  the  head  and  the  front  of  an  office-holding 
oligarchy,  who  thought  they  owned  the  county 
and  the  county  offices,  who  took  what  spoils 
of  office  and  patronage  they  coveted  for  them 
selves,  and  sought  to  parcel  the  remainder  out 
among  their  henchmen  and  their  relatives.  This 
political  tyranny,  this  nepotism,  must  end,  he 
said,  and  he,  Quintus  Q.  Montjoy,  was  the  in 
strument  chosen  and  ordained  to  end  it.  "Nom 
inate  Montjoy  and  break  up  the  County  ring," 
was  the  slogan  he  carried  on  his  printed  card. 
Therein,  in  especial,  might  be  divined  the  under 
mining  and  capable  hand  of  Senator  Maydew. 
But  when  at  the  second  meeting  between  the 
candidates  Mr.  Montjoy  went  still  further  and 
touched  directly  upon  alleged  personal  failings 
of  Judge  Priest,  one  who  knew  the  inner  work 
ings  of  the  speaker's  mind  might  have  hazarded 
a  guess  that  here  a  certain  lady's  suggestions, 
privately  conveyed,  found  deliverance  in  the 
spoken  word. 

The  issue  being  thus,  by  premeditated  intent 
of  one  of  the  two  gentlemen  most  interested, 
so  clearly  and  so  acutely  defined,  the  electors 
took  sides  promptly,  becoming  not  merely 
partisans  but  militant  and  aggressive  partisans. 
Indeed,  citizens  who  seldom  concerned  them- 
selves  in  fights  within  the  party,  but  were 
[250] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

mainly  content  to  vote  the  straight  party  ticket 
after  the  fighting  was  over,  came  out  into  the 
open  and  declared  themselves.  Perhaps  the 
'most  typical  exemplar  of  this  conservative  class, 
now  turning  radical,  was  offered  in  the  person 
of  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg.  Until  this  time  Mr. 
Felsburg  had  held  to  the  view  that  needless 
interference  in  primary  elections  jibed  but  poorly 
with  the  purveying  of  clothing  to  the  masses. 
Former  patrons  who  differed  with  one  polit 
ically  were  apt  to  go  a-buying  elsewhere.  No 
matter  what  your  own  leanings  might  be,  Mr. 
Felsburg,  facing  you  across  a  showcase  or  a 
counter,  without  ever  committing  himself  abso 
lutely,  nevertheless  managed  to  convey  the 
impression  that,  barring  that  showcase  or  that 
counter,  there  was  nothing  between  him  and 
you,  the  customer — that  in  all  things  you  twain 
were  as  one  and  would  so  continue.  Such  had 
been  his  attitude  until  now. 

When  Mr.  Montjoy  speared  at  Judge  Priest, 
Judge  Priest  remained  outwardly  quite  calm 
and  indifferent,  but  not  so  Mr.  Felsburg.  If 
he  did  not  take  the  stump  in  defence  of  his  old 
friend  at  least  he  frequented  its  base,  in  and 
out  of  business  hours,  and  in  the  fervour  of  his 
championship  he  chopped  his  English  finer  and 
twisted  his  metaphors  worse  than  ever  he  had 
done  before,  which  was  saying  a  good  deal. 

One  afternoon,  when  he  returned  to  the 
store,  after  a  two-hours'  absence  spent  in  side 
walk  argument  down  by  the  Square,  his  brother, 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Mr.  Ike  Felsburg,  who  was  associated  in  the 
firm,  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  him,  con 
cerning  his  activities  in  the  curbstone  forum, 
putting  the  objections  on  the  grounds  of  com 
mercial  expediency.  At  that  he  struck  an 
attitude  remotely  suggestive  of  a  plump  and 
elderly  Israelitish  Ajax  defying  the  lightning. 

"Listen  here,  you  Ike,"  he  stated.  "Thirty 
years  I  have  been  building  up  this  here  Oak 
Hall  Clothing  Emporium,  and  also  hats,  caps 
and  gents'  furnishings  goods.  You — you  can 
run  around  with  your  lodge  meetings  and  your 
benevolence  societies,  and  all  this  time  I  work 
here,  sweating  like  rats  in  a  trap,  and  never  is  a 
word  said  by  me  to  you,  vicer  or  verser.  I  ask 
you  as  brother  to  brother,  ain't  that  so,  or  ain't 
it?  It  is,"  continued  Mr.  Herman,  answering 
his  own  question. 

"But,  Hermy,"  interjected  Mr.  Ike,  put  on 
the  defensive  by  the  turn  which  the  argument 
had  taken,  "but,  Hermy,  all  what  I  have  said 
to  you  is  that  maybe  somebody  who  likes  Mont- 
joy  would  get  mad  at  you  for  your  words  and 
take  their  custom  up  the  street." 

"Let  'em!"  proclaimed  Mr.  Herman  with  a 
defiant  gesture  which  almost  upset  a  glass  case 
containing  elastic  garters  and  rubber  arm 
bands,  "let  'em.  Anybody  which  would  be  a 
sucker  enough  to  vote  for  Montjoy  against  a 
fine  young  fellow  like  this  here  Houser  would  also 
be  a  sucker  enough  to  let  Strauss,  Coleman 
&  Levy  sell  him  strictly  guaranteed  all-wool 
[  252  ] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

suitings  made  out  of  cotton  shoddy,  and  I 
wouldn't  want  his  custom  under  any  circum 
stances  whatsoever!" 

"But,  Hermy!"  The  protest  was  growing 
weaker. 

"You  wait,"  shouted  Mr.  Herman.  "You 
have  had  your  say,  and  now  I  would  have  mine, 
if  you  please.  I  would  prefer  to  get  one  little 
word  in  sideways,  if  you  will  be  so  good.  You 
have  just  now  seen  me  coming  in  out  of  the 
hot  sun  hoarse  as  a  tiger  from  trying  to  con 
vince  a  few  idiots  which  they  never  had  any 
more  sense  than  a  dog's  hind  leg  and  never 
will  have  any,  neither.  And  so  you  stand 
there — my  own  brother — and  tell  me  I  am 
going  too  far.  Going  too  far?  Believe  me, 
Mister  Ike  Felsburg,  I  ain't  started  yet." 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  glared  into  the 
depths  of  his  establishment.  "Adolph,"  he 
commanded,  "come  here!"  Adolph  came,  he 
being  head  salesman  in  the  clothing  depart 
ment,  while  Mr.  Ike  quivered  in  dumb  appre 
hension,  dreading  the  worst  and  not  knowing 
what  dire  form  it  would  assume. 

"Adolph,"  said  Mr.  Herman  with  a  baleful 
side-glance  at  his  offending  kinsman.  "To-day 
we  are  forming  here  the  Oak  Hall  and  Tobias 
J.  Houser  Campaign  and  Marching  Club,  made 
up  of  proprietors,  clerks,  other  employees  and 
well  wishers  of  this  here  store,  of  which  club  I 
am  the  president  therefrom  and  you  are  the 
secretary.  So  you  will  please  open  up  a  list 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


right  away  and  tell  all  the  boys  they  are  already 
members  in  good  standing." 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  Herman,"  said  Adolph, 
"I've  always  been  good  friends  with  Quintus 
Q.  Montjoy  and  besides  which,  we  are  neigh 
bours.  No  longer  ago  than  only  day  before 
yesterday  I  practically  as  good  as  promised 
him  my  vote.  I  thought  if  you  was  coming 
out  for  Houser,  some  of  us  here  in  the  store 
should  be  the  other  way  and  so— 

Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  stilled  him  with  a 
look  and  removed  his  hat  in  order  to  speak  with 
greater  emphasis. 

"Adolph  Dreifus,"  he  said  with  a  deadly 
solemnity,  "you  been  here  in  this  store  a  good 
many  years.  I  would  assume  you  like  your 
job  here  pretty  well.  I  would  consider  that 
you  have  always  been  well  treated  here.  Am 
I  right,  or  am  I  wrong?  I  am  right!  I  would 
assume  you  would  prefer  to  continue  here  as 
before.  Yes?  No?  Yes!  You  remember  the 
time  you  wrote  with  a  piece  of  chalk  white 
marks  on  the  floor  so  that  that  poor  near 
sighted  Leopold  Meyer,  who  is  now  dead  and 
gone,  would  think  it  was  scraps  of  paper  and 
go  round  all  day  trying  to  pick  those  chalk 
marks  up?  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  you  do  so 
and  I  said  nothing.  You  remember  the  time 
you  induced  me  to  buy  for  our  trade  that  order 
of  strictly  non-selling  Ascot  neckties  because 
your  own  cousin  from  Cincinnati  was  the  sales 
man  handling  the  line  which,  from  that  day  to 

[254] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE      CODE 

this,  we  are  still  carrying  those  dam*  Ascot  ties 
in  stock?  Did  I  say  anything  to  you  then? 
No!  Not  a  word  did  I  say.  All  those  things  is 
years  past  and  I  have  never  spoken  with  you 
regarding  them  until  to-day.  But  now,  Adolph, 
I  must  say  I  am  ashamed  for  you  that  you 
should  pick  on  that  poor  Leopold  Meyer,  who 
was  blind  like  a  barn-door.  I  am  ashamed  for 
you  that  you  should  boost  up  that  cousin  of 
yours  from  Cincinnati  and  his  bum  lines.  If 
I  s'hould  get  more  ashamed  for  you  than  what 
already  I  now  am,  there  is  no  telling  what  I 
should  do.  Adolph,  you  will  please  be  so  good 
as  to  remember  that  all  persons  that  work  in 
this  here  Oak  Hall  Clothing  Emporium  are  for 
Tobe  Houser  for  State  Senator  and  no  one  else, 
whatsoever.  Otherwise,  pretty  soon,  I  am 
afraid  there  will  be  some  new  faces  selling  gar 
ments  around  here.  Do  I  make  myself  plain? 
I  do! 

^,"My  brother — the  junior  partner  here" — he 
dwelt  heavily  upon  the  word  junior,  making 
of  it  a  most  disqualifying  adjective — "he  also 
thinks  in  this  matter  the  same  way  as  I  do.  If 
you  don't  believe  me,  ask  him  for  yourself. 
There  he  stands  like  a  dumb  engraved  image — 
ask  him." 

And  Mr.  Ike,  making  craven  surrender, 
raised  both  hands  in  token  of  his  capitulation 
and  weakly  murmured,  "Yes." 

The  third  of  the  joint  debates,  which,  as  it 

[255] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


turned  out,  was  to  be  the  last  one  of  the  series, 
began  according  to  schedule  and  announcement 
at  the  boat  store  corner  in  the  presence  of  an 
assemblage  mustering  up  in  the  hundreds.  In 
fact  the  Daily  Evening  News  reporter,  in  the 
introductory  paragraph  of  his  account,  referred 
to  it,  I  believe,  as  "a  sea  of  upturned  faces." 
Mr.  Montjoy  led  off  first.  He  had  his  say, 
for  the  better  part  of  an  hour,  speaking  with 
much  fluency  from  a  small  board  platform  that 
was  built  up  against  the  side  of  the  old  boat 
store  and  occasionally,  with  a  fretful  shake  of 
his  head,  raising  his  voice  so  it  might  be  heard 
above  the  rumbling  objurgations  of  the  first 
mate  of  the  Cumberland  Queen  who,  thirty  yards 
down  the  old  gravel  levee,  was  urging  his  black 
rousters  to  greater  speed  as  they  rolled  the  last 
of  a  consignment  of  tobacco  hogsheads  across 
the  lower  wharf  boat  and  aboard  the  Queen's 
boiler  deck.  Mr.  Montjoy  concluded  with  a 
neat  verbal  flourish  and  sat  down,  mopping 
his  moistened  brow  with  a  square  of  fine 
cambric.  Mr.  Montjoy  never  permitted  him 
self  to  sweat  and  in  public,  at  least,  he  per 
spired  but  seldom;  but  there  were  times  when 
he  did  diffuse  a>  perceptible  glow. 

His  rival  arose  to  answer  him.  He  started 
off — Houser  did — by  stating  that  he  was  not 
running  on  his  family  record  for  this  office. 
He  was  running  on  his  own  record,  such  as  it 
was.  Briefly,  but  vigorously,  he  defended 
his  uncle;  a  thing  he  had  done  before.  Con- 
[256] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

tinuing,  he  would  say  Mr.  Montjoy  had  accused 
him  of  being  young.  He  wished  to  plead 
guilty  to  that  charge.  If  it  were  a  defect,  to 
be  counted  against  him,  time  would  probably 
cure  him  of  it  and  he  thought  the  Senate  Cham 
ber  at  Frankfort,  this  state,  provided  a  very 
suitable  spot  for  the  aging  process.  (Laughter 
and  applause.)  He  had  a  rather  whimsical 
drawl  and  a  straightforward,  commonplace  man 
ner  of  delivery. 

He  continued,  and  I  quote: 

"Some  of  you  may  have  heard  somewhere — 
casually — that  my  opponent  had  a  grandfather. 
Stories  to  that  general  effect  have  been  in 
circulation  for  quite  some  little  time  in  this 
vicinity.  I  gather  from  various  avenues  of 
information  that  my  opponent  is  not  exactly 
ashamed  of  his  grandfather.  I  don't  blame 
him  for  that.  A  person  without  many  prospects 
so  far  as  the  future  is  concerned  is  not  to  be 
blamed  for  dwelling  rather  heavily  upon  the 
past.  But,  fellow  citizens,  doesn't  it  strike  you 
that  in  this  campaign  we  are  having  altogether 
too  much  grandfather  and  not  enough  grandson? 
(Renewed  laughter  from  the  Houser  adherents 
and  Mr.  Montjoy's  face  turning  a  violent  red.) 
It  strikes  me  that  the  stock  is  sort  of  petering 
out.  It  strikes  me  that  the  whale  has  bred  a 
minnow. 

"And  so,  in  light  of  these  things,  I  want  to 
make  this  proposition  here  and  now:  I  want 
every  man  in  this  county  whose  grandfather 
[257] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


owned  eighty  slaves  and  four  thousand  acres 
of  bottom  lands  to  vote  for  Mr.  Montjoy. 
And  all  I  ask  for  myself  is  that  every  man  whose 
grandfather  didn't  own  eighty  slaves  and  four 
thousand  acres,  should  cast  his  vote  for  me." 
(A  voice,  "My  grandpop  never  owned  nary 
nigger,  Toby, — I  reckin  you  git  my  vote  with 
out  a  struggle,  boy.") 

Along  this  strain  Mr.  Houser  continued 
some  minutes.  It  was  a  line  he  had  not  taken 
in  either  of  his  previous  arguments  with  his 
opponent.  He  branched  away  from  it  to  tell 
what  he  meant  to  do  for  the  people  of  the  dis 
trict  in  the  event  of  his  nomination  and  elec 
tion  but  presently  he  came  back  again  to  the 
other  theme,  while  Judge  Priest  grinned  up  at 
him  from  his  place  in  the  edge  of  the  crowd 
and  Mr.  Montjoy  fidgeted  and  fumed  and 
wriggled  as  though  the  chair  upon  which  he  sat 
had  been  the  top  of  a  moderately  hot  stove. 
From  these  and  from  yet  other  signs  it  might 
have  been  noted  that  Mr.  Montjoy,  under 
the  nagging  semihumorotis  goadings  of  young 
Houser,  was  rapidly  losing  his  temper,  which, 
by  our  awkward  Anglo-Saxon  mode  of  speech, 
is  but  another  way  of  saying  he  was  not  losing 
his  temper  at  all  but,  instead,  finding  out  that 
he  had  one. 

The  Cumberland  Queen  blew  her  whistle  for 

departure   and   as   the   roar   died   away   Mr. 

Houser  might  be  heard  in  the  act  of  finishing 

a  sentence  touching  with  gentle  irony  upon 

[258] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

the  topic  which  seemed  so  to  irk  and  irritate 
Mr.  Montjoy.  He  never  finished  it. 

Up,  from  his  chair,  sprang  Mr.  Montjoy,  and 
shook  a  knotted  fist  beneath  Mr.  Houser's 
nose. 

"How  dare  you?"  he  demanded.  "How  dare 
you  indulge  in  your  cheap  sarcasm — your  low 
scurrilities — regarding  one  of  the  grandest  men 
the  Southland  ever  produced?" 

His  voice  turned  falsetto  and  soared  to  a  slate- 
pencilly  screech: 

"I  repeat  it,  sir — how  dare  you — you  un 
derbred  ignoramus — you  who  never  knew  what 
it  was  to  have  a  noble  grandfather!  Nobody 
knows  who  your  grandfather  was.  I  doubt 
whether  anybody  knows  who  your  father ': 

Perhaps  it  was  what  Mr.  Montjoy  appeared 
to  be  on  the  point  of  asserting.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  his  knuckles,  as  he  brandished  his  fist  in 
Mr.  Houser's  face,  grazed  Mr.  Houser's  cheek. 

Mr.  Houser  stretched  forth  a  solid  arm  and 
gripped  a  handful  of  sinewy  fingers  in  the  lapels 
of  Mr.  Montjoy's  coat.  He  didn't  strike  Mr. 
Montjoy,  but  he  took  him  and  he  shook  him — 
oh,  how  he  shook  him.  He  shook  him  up  and 
down,  and  back  and  forth  and  to  and  fro  and 
forward  and  rearward;  shook  him  until  his 
collar  came  undone  and  his  nose  glasses  flew 
off  into  space;  shook  him  until  his  hair  came 
down  in  his  eyes  and  his  teeth  rattled  in  his 
jaw;  shook  him  into  limp,  breathless,  voiceless 
helplessness,  and  then  holding  him,  dangling 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


and  flopping  for  a  moment,  slapped  him  once 
very  gently,  almost  as  a  mother  might  slap  an 
erring  child  of  exceedingly  tender  years;  and 
dropped  the  limp  form,  and  stepped  over  it  and 
climbed  down  off  the  platform  into  the  midst 
of  the  excited  crowd.  The  third  of  the  series 
of  the  joint  debates  was  ended;  also  the  series 
itself. 

Judge  Priest  instantly  shoved  forward,  his 
size  and  his  impetuosity  clearing  the  path  for 
him  through  a  press  of  lesser  and  less  deter 
mined  bodies.  He  thrust  a  firm  hand  into  the 
crook  of  his  nephew's  arm  and  led  him  off  up 
the  street  clear  of  those  who  might  have  sought 
either  to  compliment  or  to  reprehend  the  young 
man.  As  they  went  away  linked  together 
thus,  it  was  observed  that  the  judge  wore  upon 
his  broad  face  a  look  of  sore  distress  and  it  was 
overheard  that  he  grievously  lamented  the  most 
regrettable  occurrence  which  had  just  transpired 
and  that  openly  he  reproached  young  Houser 
for  his  elemental  response  to  the  verbal  attacks 
of  Mr.  Montjoy  and,  in  view  of  the  profound 
physical  and  spiritual  shock  to  Mr.  Montjoy's 
well-known  pride  and  dignity,  that  he  ex 
pressed  a  deep  concern  for  the  possible  outcome. 
Upon  this  last  head,  he  was  particularly  and 
shrilly  emphatic. 

In  such  a  fashion,  with  the  nephew  striving 

vainly  to  speak  in  his  own  defence  and  with  the 

uncle  as  constantly  interrupting  to  reprimand 

him  and  to  warn  him  of  the  peril  he  had  brought 

[260] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

upon  his  head,  and  all  in  so  loud  a  voice  as  to 
be  clearly  audible  to  any  persons  hovering 
nearby,  the  pair  continued  upon  their  journey 
until  they  reached  Soule's  Drug  Store.  There, 
with  a  final  sorrowful  nod  of  the  judge's  head 
and  a  final  shake  of  his  admonishing  forefinger, 
they  parted.  The  younger  man  departed, 
presumably  for  his  home  to  meditate  upon  his 
foolhardy  conduct  and  the  older  went  inside 
the  store  and  retired  to  Mr.  Soule's  little  box 
of  an  office  at  the  rear,  hard  by  the  prescrip 
tion  case.  Carefully  closing  the  door  after 
him  to  insure  privacy,  he  remained  there  for 
upwards  of  an  hour,  engaged  undoubtedly  in 
melancholy  reflections  touching  upon  the  out 
break  of  his  most  culpable  kinsman  and  upon 
the  conceivable  consequences.  He  must  have 
done  some  writing,  too,  for  when  at  length  he 
emerged  he  was  holding  in  one  hand  a  sealed 
envelope.  Summoning  to  him  Logan  Eaker, 
Mr.  Soule's  coloured  errand  boy,  he  entrusted 
the  note  to  Logan,  along  with  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar  for  messenger  hire,  and  sent  the  black  boy 
away.  From  this  circumstance  several  persons 
who  chanced  to  be  in  Soule's,  hypothesised 
that  very  probably  the  judge  had  taken  it  upon 
himself  to  write  Mr.  Mont  joy  a  note  of  apology 
in  the  name  of  his  nephew  and  of  himself. 
However,  this  upon  the  part  of  the  onlookers 
was  but  a  supposition.  They  merely  were  en 
gaged  in  the  old  practice,  so  hallowed  among 
bystanders,  of  putting  two  and  two  together, 
[261] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


by  such  process  sometimes  attaining  a  total  of 
four,  and  sometimes  not. 

As  regards,  on  the  other  hand,  Quintus  Q. 
Montjoy,  he  retained  no  distinct  recollection  of 
the  passage  homeward,  following  his  mishand 
ling  by  Tobias  J.  Houser.  For  the  time  a 
seething  confusion  ruled  his  being.  Mingled 
emotions  of  chagrin,  rage  and  shame — but  most 
of  all  rage — boiled  hi  his  brain  until  the  top 
of  his  skull  threatened  to  come  right  off.  Since 
he  was  a  schoolboy  until  now,  none  had  laid 
so  much  as  an  impious  finger  upon  him.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  the  warm  strong 
desire  to  shed  human  blood,  to  see  it  spatter 
and  pour  forth  in  red  streams.  The  spirit 
of  his  grandfather  waked  and  walked  within 
him;  anyway  it  is  but  fair  to  assume  that  it 
did  so. 

Somebody  must  have  rebuttoned  Mr.  Mont- 
joy's  collar  for  him  and  readjusted  his  necktie. 
Somebody  else  of  equally  uncertain  identity 
must  have  salvaged  his  glasses  and  restored 
them  to  their  customary  place  on  the  bridge 
of  his  slender  nose.  True,  he  preserved  no 
memory  of  these  details.  But  when,  half  an 
hour  after  the  encounter,  a  hired  hack  deposited 
him  at  his  yard  gate  and  when  Mr.  Barnhill, 
who  it  would  appear  dimly  and  almost  as  a 
figment  from  a  troubled  dream,  accompanied 
him  on  the  ride,  had  dismounted  and  had 
volunteered  to  help  him  alight  from  the  vehicle, 
meanwhile  offering  words  intended  to  be  sym- 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

pathetic,  Mr.  Montjoy  found  collar,  necktie 
and  glasses  all  properly  bestowed. 

Within  the  sanctified  and  solitary  precincts 
of  his  library,  beneath  the  grim,  limned  eyes 
of  his  ancestor,  Mr.  Montjoy  re-attained  a 
measure  of  outward  calm  and  of  consecutive 
thought;  coincidently  with  these  a  tremendous 
resolution  began  to  harden  inside  of  him. 
Presently  as  he  walked  the  floor,  alternately 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands,  the 
telephone  bell  sounded.  Answering  the  call, 
he  heard  coming  across  the  line  the  familiar 
voice  of  one,  who,  in  the  temporary  absence  of 
her  husband  from  the  city,  now  undertook  to 
offer  advice.  It  would  seem  that  Mrs.  May- 
dew  had  but  heard  of  the  brutal  assault  per 
petrated  upon  her  friend;  she  was  properly 
indignant  and  more  than  properly  desirous 
that  a  just  vengeance  be  exacted.  It  would 
seem  in  this  connection  she  had  certain  vigor 
ous  suggestions  to  offer.  And  finally  it  would 
seem  she  had  just  seen  the  evening  paper  and 
desired  to  know  whether  Mr.  Montjoy  had 
seen  his  copy? 

Mr.  Montjoy  had  not.  After  a  short  inter 
change  of  views,  when,  from  intensity  of  feel 
ing,  the  lady  fairly  made  the  wire  sibilate  and 
sing  as  her  words  sped  over  it,  she  rang  off  and 
Mr.  Montjoy  summoned  his  butler.  His  was 
the  only  roof  in  town  which  harboured  a  butler 
beneath  it.  Other  families  had  male  servants — 
of  colour — who  performed  duties  similar  to 
[263] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


those  performed  by  Mr.  Montjoy's  man  but 
they  didn't  call  these  functionaries  butlers  and 
Mr.  Mont  joy  did.  He  sent  the  butler  out 
into  the  yard  to  get  the  paper,  which  a  boy 
had  flung  over  the  fence  palings  in  a  twisted 
wisp.  And  when  the  butler  brought  it  to  him 
he  opened,  to  read,  not  the  Daily  Evening  News9 
highly  impartial  account  of  the  affair  at  the 
boat  store  cornei>— that  could  come  later — but 
to  read  first  off  a  card  signed  Veritas  which  was 
printed  at  the  bottom  of  the  second  column  of 
the  second  -inside  page,  immediately  following 
the  editorial  comment  of  the  day.  It  was 
this  card  to  which  young  Mrs.  Maydew  had 
particularly  directed  his  attention. 

He  bent  his  head  and  he  read.  The  indi 
vidual  who  chose  to  hide  behind  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Veritas  wrote  briefly  and  to  the  point. 
At  the  outset  he  confessed  himself  as  one  who 
harboured  old-fashioned  ideals.  Therefore  he 
abhorred  the  personal  altercations  which  in 
these  latter  and  degenerate  days  so  often 
marred  the  course  of  public  discussions  be 
tween  gentlemen  entertaining  opposite  views 
upon  public  problems  or  private  matters.  And 
still  more  did  he  deplore  the  common  street 
brawls,  not  unmarked  by  the  use  of  lethal 
weapons  and  sometimes  vby  tragically  fatal  re 
sults  to  one  or  the  other  of  the  parties  engaged, 
which  had  been  known  before  now  to  eventuate 
from  the  giving  and  taking  of  the  offensive 
word,  or  blow.  Hardly  need  the  writer  add 
[264] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

that  he  had  in  mind  the  unfortunate  affray 
of  even  date  in  a  certain  populous  quarter  of 
our  city.  Without  mentioning  names,  he, 
Veritas,  took  that  deplorable  occurrence  for 
his  present  text.  It  had  inspired  him  to  utter 
these  words  of  protest  against  the  vulgarity, 
the  coarseness  and  the  crassness  of  the  methods 
employed  for  the  appeasing  of  individual  and 
personal  wrongs.  How  much  more  dignified, 
how  much  more  in  keeping  with  the  traditions 
of  the  soil,  and  the  very  history  of  this  proud 
old  commonwealth,  was  the  system  formerly 
in  vogue  among  gentlemen  for  the  adjudication 
of  their  private  misunderstandings!  Truly 
enough  the  law  no  longer  sanctioned  the  em 
ployment  of  the  code  duello;  indeed  for  the 
matter  of  that,  the  law  of  the  land  had  never 
openly  sanctioned  it;  but  once  upon  a  time  a 
jealous  regard  for  his  own  outraged  honour  had 
been  deemed  sufficient  to  lift  a  Southern  gentle 
man  to  extremes  above  the  mere  written  letter 
of  the  statutes.  "0  tempora,  0  mores!  Oh, 
for  the  good  old  days!"  And  then  came  the 
signature. 

Barely  had  Mr.  Montjoy  concluded  the 
reading  and  the  re-reading  of  this,  when  JVlr. 
Calhoun  Tabscott  was  announced  and  promptly 
entered  to  proffer  his  hand  and  something  more, 
besides.  Mr.  Tabscott  carried  with  him  a  copy 
of  the  Daily  Evening  News  opened  at  the  inside 
page.  His  nostrils  expanded  with  emotion,  his 

form  shook  with  it. 

[265] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


In  ten  words  these  two — Mr.  Montjoy  as  the 
person  aggrieved  and  Mr.  Tabscott  as  his  next 
friend — found  themselves  in  perfect  accord  as 
to  the  course  which  now  should  be  pursued. 
At  once  then,  Montjoy  sat  down  at  his  ma 
hogany  writing  desk  and  Mr.  Tabscott  sat 
down  behind  him  where  he  could  look  over 
the  other's  shoulder  and  together  they  engaged 
in  the  labours  of  literary  composition. 

But  just  before  he  seated  himself  Mr.  Mont 
joy  pointed  a  quivering  finger  at  the  desk  and, 
in  a  voice  which  shook  with  restrained  deter 
mination,  he  said  impressively,  ill  fact,  dramat 
ically: 

"Calhoun  Tabscott,  that  desk  belonged  to 
my  grandfather,  the  old  General.  He  used  it 
all  his  life — in  Virginia  first  and  then  out  here. 
At  this  moment,  Calhoun  Tabscott,  I  can 
almost  feel  him  hovering  above  me,  waiting 
to  guide  my  pen." 

And  Mr.  Tabscott  said  he  felt  that  way  about 
it,  himself. 

In  spare  moments  at  home  Judge  Priest  was 
addicted  to  the  game  of  croquet.  He  played 
it  persistently  and  very  badly.  In  his  side 
yard  under  his  dining-room  window  rusted 
wickets  stood  in  the  ordained  geometric  pattern 
between  painted  goal  posts,  and  in  a  box  under 
a  rustic  bench  in  the  little  tottery  summer- 
house  beneath  the  largest  of  the  judge's  silver 
leaf  poplar  trees  were  kept  the  balls  and  the 
[266] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

mallets — which  latter  instruments  the  judge 
insisted  on  calling  mauls.  And  here,  in  this 
open  space,  he  might  be  found  on  many  a  fine 
afternoon  congenially  employed,  with  some 
neighbourhood  crony  or  a  chance  caller  for  his 
antagonist.  Often,  of  mornings,  when  he  had 
a  half  hour  or  so  of  leisure,  he  practiced  shots 
alone. 

On  the  morning  which  immediately  followed 
the  day  of  the  broken-off  joint  debate  at  the 
boat-store  corner,  he  was  so  engaged.  He  had 
his  ball  in  excellent  alignment  and  fair  distance 
of  the  centre  wickets,  and  was  stooping  to  de 
liver  the  stroke  when  he  became  aware  of  his 
nephew  approaching  him  hurriedly  across  the 
wide  lawn. 

"Uncle  Billy,"  began  that  straightforward 
young  man,  "something  has  happened,  and 
I've  come  to  you  with  it  right  off." 

"Son,"  said  the  judge,  straightening  up 
reluctantly,  "something  happens  purty  nigh 
every  day.  Whut's  on  your  mind  this  mornin'  ?" 

"Well,  suh,  I  was  eating  breakfast  a  little 
bit  ago,  when  that  Cal  Tabscott  came  to  the 
front  door.  He  sent  word  he  wouldn't  come 
in,  so  I  went  out  to  the  door  to  see  what  it  was 
he  wanted.  He  was  standing  there  stiff  and 
formal  as  a  ramrod,  all  dressed  up  hi  his  Sun 
day  clothes,  and  wearing  a  pair  of  gloves,  too 
— this  weather!  And  he  bowed  without  a 
word  and  handed  me  a  letter  and  when  I  opened 
it  it  was  a  challenge  from  Quint  Montjoy — a 
[267] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


challenge  to  fight  a  duel  with  him,  me  to  name 
the  weapons,  the  time  and  the  place!  That's 
what  I've  got  to  tell  you." 

His  uncle's  eyes  opened  innocently  wide. 

"Boy,  you  don't  tell  me?"  he  said.  "And 
whut  did  you  do  then?" 

"Well,  suh,  I  came  within  an  ace  of  just 
hauling  off  and  mashing  that  blamed  idiot  in 
the  mouth — coming  to  my  door  with  a  chal 
lenge  for  a  duel!  But  I  remembered  what  you 
told  me  yesterday  about  keeping  my  temper 
and  I  didn't  do  it.  Then  I  started  to  tear  up 
that  fool  note  and  throw  the  pieces  in  his  face." 

"You  didn't  do  that  neither,  did  you?"  de 
manded  the  judge  quickly,  with  alarm  in  his 
voice.  "You  kept  it?" 

"I  didn't  do  that  either  and  I  kept  the  note," 
replied  the  younger  man,  answering  both  ques 
tions  at  once.  "I  shut  the  door  in  Tabscott's 
face  and  left  him  on  the  doorstep  and  then  I 
went  and  put  on  my  hat  and  came  right  on  over 
here  to  see  you.  Here's  the  note — I  brought  it 
along  with  me." 

His  uncle  took  from  him  the  single  sheet  of 
note  paper  and  adjusted  his  specks.  He  gazed 
admiringly  for  a  moment  at  the  embossed 
family  crest  at  the  top  and  read  its  contents 
through  slowly. 

"Ah  hah,"  he  said;    "seems  to  be  regular 

in  every  respect,  don't  it? — polite,    too.    To 

the  best  of  my  remembrances  I  never  seen  one 

of  these  challenges  before,  but  I  should  judge 

[268] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

this  here  one  is  got  up  strictly  accordin'  to 
the  Code.  Son,  our  ancestors  certainly  were 
the  great  hands  for  goin'  accordin'  to  the  codes, 
weren't  they?  If  it  wasn't  one  Code,  it  was 
another,  with  them  old  fellers.  Quintus  Q. 
Mont  joy  writes  a  nice  hand,  don't  he?" 

With  great  care,  he  folded  the  note  along 
its  original  crease,  handling  it  as  though  it  had 
been  a  fragile  document  of  immense  value  and 
meanwhile  humming  a  little  tuneless  tune 
abstractedly.  Still  humming,  he  put  the  paper 
in  an  ancient  letter  wallet,  wrapped  a  leather 
string  about  the  wallet,  and  returned  wallet  and 
string  to  the  breast  pocket  of  his  black  seer 
sucker  coat. 

"Son,"  he  said  when  all  this  had  been  accom 
plished,  "I  reckin  you  done  the  right  thing  in 
comin'  straight  to  me.  I  must  compliment 
you." 

"Yes,  suh,  much  obliged,"  said  young  Houser, 
"but,  Uncle  Billy,  what  would  you  advise  my 
doing  now?" 

He  rubbed  his  forehead  in  perplexity. 

"Why,  nothin'— nothin'  a'tall,"  bade  his 
uncle,  as  though  surprised  at  any  suggestion 
of  uncertainty  upon  the  nephew's  part.  "You 
ain't  got  a  thing  to  do,  but  jest  to  go  on  back 
home  and  finish  up  your  breakfast.  It  ain't 
wise  to  start  the  day  on  an  empty  stomach, 
ever.  After  that,  ef  I  was  you,  I  would  put 
in  the  remainder  of  the  day  remainin'  perfectly 
ca'm  and  collected  and  whilst  so  engaged  I 
[269] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


wouldn't  say  nothin'  to  nobody  about  havin' 
received  a  challenge  to  fight  a  duel."  He  re- 
gripped  his  mallet.  "Son,  watch  me  make 
this  shot."  He  stopped  and  squinted  along  the 
imaginary  line  from  his  ball  to  the  wicket. 

"But,  Uncle  Billy,  I " 

"Son,  please  don't  interrupt  me  ag'in.  Jimmy 
Bagby  is  comin'  over  this  evenin'  to  play  off 
a  tie  match  with  me,  and  I  aim  to  be  in  shape 
fur  him  when  he  does  come.  Now  run  along 
on  back  home  like  I  told  you  to  and  keep  your 
mouth  shet." 

The  judge  whacked  his  ball  and  made  an 
effective  shot — or  rather  an  effective  miss — 
and  Tobe  Houser  betook  himself  away  wagging 
his  puzzled  head  in  a  vain  effort  to  fathom  the 
enigma  of  his  relative's  cryptic  behaviour. 

Approximately  thirty-six  hours  passed  with 
out  public  developments  which  might  be  con 
strued  as  relating  to  the  matter  chiefly  in  hand 
and  then — in  the  early  afternoon — young  Houser 
returned  to  the  house  of  his  uncle,  this  time, 
finding  its  owner  stretched  out  for  his  after- 
dinner  nap  upon  an  old  and  squashy  leather 
couch  in  the  big  old-timey  sitting-room.  The 
judge  wasn't  quite  asleep  yet.  He  roused  as 
his  nephew  entered. 

"Uncle  Billy,"  began  young  Houser,  with 
out  preamble,  "you  told  me  yesterday  not  to 
do  anything  and  I've  obeyed  your  orders  al 
though  I  didn't  understand  what  you  were 
driving  at,  exactly,  but  now  I  must  do  some- 
[270] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE      CODE 

thing  if  I  aim  to  keep  my  self-respect  or  to  stay 
in  this  race — either  one,  or  both.  Unless  I 
take  up  the  dare  he's  laid  down  in  front  of  me, 
Montjoy's  going  to  brand  me  on  the  stump 
as  a  coward.  Yes,  suh,  that's  his  intention — 
Oh,  it  came  to  me  straight.  It  seems  Mrs. 
Horace  K.  Maydew  told  old  Mrs.  Whitridge 
this  morning  in  strict  confidence  and  Mrs. 
Whitridge  just  took  her  foot  in  hand  and  put 
out  to  tell  Aunt  Puss  Lockfoot  and  Aunt  Puss 
didn't  lose  any  time  getting  through  the  alley 
gate  into  my  back  yard  to  tell  my  wife. 

"Yes,  suh,  if  I  keep  silent  and  don't  take  any 
notice  of  his  challenge,  Montjoy's  going  to  get 
up  before  this  whole  town  at  a  mass  meeting 
and  denounce  me  as  a  coward, — he's  going  to 
say  I'm  willing  enough  to  take  advantage  of 
being  younger  and  stronger  than  he  is  to  attack 
him  with  my  bare  hands,  but  that  I'm  afraid 
to  back  up  my  act  where  it  puts  my  hide  in 
danger.  I  know  mighty  good  and  well  who's 
behind  him,  egging  him  on — I  can  see  her 
finger  in  it  plain  enough.  She  hopes  to  see  me 
humiliated  and  she  hopes  to  see  your  chances 
hurt  in  your  next  race.  She  aims  to  strike  at 
you  through  me  and  ruin  us  both,  if  she  can. 

"But,  Uncle  Billy,  all  that  being  so,  doesn't 
alter  the  situation  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  The 
man  doesn't  live  that  can  stand  up  and  brand 
me  as  a  sneaking  quitting  coward  and  not  have 
to  answer  for  it.  One  way  or  another,  it  will 
come  to  a  pass  where  there's  bound  to  be  shoot- 
[271] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


ing.  I've  just  got  to  do  something  and  dc  it 
quick." 

"Well,  son,"  said  Judge  Priest,  still  flat 
on  his  back,  "I  sort  of  figgered  it  out  that 
things  might  be  takin'  some  sech  a  turn  as  this. 
I've  heard  a  few  of  the  rumours  that're  be- 
ginnin'  to  creep  round,  myse'f.  I  reckin,  after 
all,  you  will  have  to  answer  Mister  Mont  joy. 
In  fact,  I  taken  the  trouble  this  mornin'  to 
wrop  up  your  answer  and  have  it  all  ready  to 
be  sent  over  to  Mister  Montjoy's  place  of 
residence  by  the  hands  of  my  boy  Jeff." 

"You  wrapped  it  up?"  queried  Houser,  be 
wildered  again. 

"That's  whut  I  said — I  wropped  it  up," 
answered  the  judge.  He  heaved  himself  up 
right  and  crossed  the  room  to  his  old  writing 
table  that  stood  alongside  one  of  the  low  front 
windows  and  from  the  desk  took  up  a  large 
squarish  object,  securely  tied  up  in  white  paper 
with  an  address  written  upon  one  of  its  flat 
surfaces. 

"Jeff!"  he  called,  "oh,  you  Jeff." 

"Why,  Uncle  Billy,  that  looks  like  a  book 
to  me,"  said  Mr.  Houser.  Assuredly,  this  was 
a  most  mystified  young  man. 

"It  ain't  no  box  of  sugar  kisses — you  kin 
be  shore  of  that  much,  anyway,"  stated  that 
inscrutable  uncle  of  his.  "You're  still  willin', 
ain't  you,  son,  to  set  quiet  and  be  guided  by 
me  in  this  matter?" 

"Yes,  suh,  I  am.  That  is,  I'm  perfectly 
[272] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

willing  to  take  your  advice  up  to  a  certain 
point  but — 

"Then  set  right  still  and  do  so,"  commanded 
Judge  Priest.  "I'm  goin'  to  take  you  into  my 
confidences  jest  as  soon  as  I  see  how  my  way 
of  doin'  the  thing  works  out.  We  oughter  git 
some  definite  results  before  dark  this  evenin'. 
And  listen  here,  son,  a  minute — when  all's 
said  and  done  even  Quintus  Q.  Montjoy, 
Esquire,  ain't  no  more  of  a  stickler  for  foller- 
ing  after  the  Code  than  whut  I  am.  I'm  jest 
ez  full  of  time-hallowed  precedents  ez  he  is — 
and  maybe  even  more  so." 

"Callin'  me,  Jedge?"  The  speaker  was 
Jefferson  Poindexter,  who  appeared  at  the  door 
leading  into  the  hall. 

"Yes,  I  was — been  callin'  you  fur  a  half 
hour — more  or  less,"  stated  his  master.  "Jeff, 
you  take  this  here  parcel  over  to  Mister  Quintus 
Q.  Montjoy 's  and  present  it  with  the  com 
pliments  of  Mister  Houser.  You  needn't  wait 
fur  an  answer — jest  come  on  back.  I  reckin 
there  won't  be  no  answer  fur  some  little  time." 

He  turned  again  to  his  nephew  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who,  having  disposed  of  all  immediate 
and  pressing  business  affairs,  is  bent  now  upon 
pleasurable  relaxation. 

"Son,  ef  you  ain't  got  nothin'  better  to  do 
this  evenin'  I  wish't  you'd  stay  here  and  keep 
score  fur  the  tournament.  Playing  crokay, 
I  licked  the  pants  off'en  that  poor  old  Jimmy 
Bagby  yis'tiddy,  and  now  he  wants  to  git  even." 
[273] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


The  judge  spoke  vaingloriously.  "He's  skeered 
to  tackle  me  again  single-handed,  I  reckin. 
So  him  and  Father  Tom  Minor  are  comin' 
over  here  to  play  me  and  Herman  Felsburg  a 
match  game  fur  the  crokay  champeenship  of 
Clay  Street  and  adjacent  thoroughfares.  They 
oughter  be  here  almost  any  minute  now — I 
was  jest  layin*  here,  waitin'  fur  'em  and  sort 
of  souplin'  up  my  muscles." 

Playing  magnificently  as  partners,  Father 
Minor  and  Sergeant  Bagby  achieved  a  signal 
victory — score  three  to  one — over  the  Felsburg- 
Priest  team.  The  players,  with  the  official 
referee  who  maintained  a  somewhat  abstracted, 
not  to  say  a  pestered,  air,  were  sitting  in  the 
little  summer  house,  cooling  off  after  the  ardours 
of  the  sport.  Jeff  Poindexter  had  been  dis 
patched  indoors,  to  the  dining-room  sideboard, 
to  mix  and  fetch  the  customary  refreshments. 
The  editor  of  the  Daily  Evening  News,  who  was 
by  way  also  of  being  chief  newsgatherer  of  that 
dependable  and  popular  journal,  came  up  the 
street  from  the  corner  below  and  halted  outside 
the  fence. 

"Howdy,  gentlemen!"  over  the  paling  he 
greeted  them  generally.  "I've  got  some  news 
for  you-all.  I  came  out  of  my  way,  going  back 
to  the  office,  to  tell  you."  He  singled  out  the 
judge  from  the  group.  "Oh,  you  Veritas!" 
he  called,  jovially. 

"Sh-h-h,  Henry,  don't  be  a-callin'  me  that," 

[274] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

spoke  up  Judge  Priest  with  a  warning  glance 
about  him  and  a  heavy  wink  at  the  editor. 
"Somebody  that's  not  in  the  family  might 
hear  you  and  git  a  false  and  a  misleadin'  notion 
about  the  presidin'  circuit  judge  of  this  district. 
Whut's  your  news?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Tompkins,  "it's  sort  of 
unprofessional  to  be  revealing  the  facts  before 
they're  put  in  type  but  I  reckon  it's  no  great 
breach  of  ethics  to  tell  a  secret  to  an  occasional 
contributor  of  signed  communications —  '  he 
indicated  Judge  Priest,  archly — "and  the  con 
tributor's  close  friends  and  relatives.  Any 
how,  you'd  all  know  it  anyhow  as  soon  as 
the  paper  comes  out.  Quintus  Q.  Montjoy 
is  withdrawing  from  the  race  for  State  Sen 
ator." 

"What?"  several  voices  spoke  the  word  in 
chorus,  only  Sergeant  Bagby  pronounced  it 
Whut  and  Mr.  Felsburg  sounded  the  W  with 
the  sound  of  V  as  in  Vocal. 

"Montjoy  quits.  I've  got  his  card  of  with 
drawal  right  here  in  my  pocket  now.  Tobe, 
allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your  prospect 
of  getting  the  nomination  without  any  opposi 
tion  at  the  polls." 

"Quits,  does  he?"  echoed  Judge  Priest. 
"Well,  do  you  boys  know,  I  ain't  surprised. 
I've  been  lookin'  fur  him  to  do  somethin'  of 
that  nature  fur  the  last  two  hours.  I  wonder 
whut  delayed  him?"  He  addressed  the  query 

to  space. 

[275] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"He  gives  some  reasons — maybe,  yes?" 
asked  Mr.  Felsburg,  releasing  Mr.  Houser's 
hand  which  he  had  been  shaking  with  an  ex 
plosive  warmth. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Editor  Tompkins,  "I  suppose 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  to  do  that.  The  principal 
reason  he  gives  is  that  he  finds  he  cannot  spare 
the  time  from  his  business  interests  for  making 
an  extended  canvass — and  also  his  repugnance 
to  engaging  further  in  a  controversy  with  a  man 
who  so  far  forgets  himself  as  to  resort  to  phys 
ical  violence  in  the  course  of  a  joint  debate  upon 
the  issues  of  the  day.  That's  a  nice  little  fare 
well  side-slap  at  you,  Houser. 

"But  I  gleaned  from  what  I  picked  up  after 
I  got  over  to  Mont  joy's  in  answer  to  his  tele 
phone  message  asking  me  to  call  that  there 
may  have  been  other  reasons  which  are  not 
set  forth  in  his  card  of  withdrawal,"  continued 
Mr.  Tompkins.  "In  fact,  about  the  time  I 
got  over  there — to  his  house — Hod  Maydew 
arrived  in  a  free  state  of  perspiration  and  ex 
citement — Hod's  been  up  in  Louisville  on  busi 
ness,  you  know,  and  didn't  get  in  until  the  two- 
thirty  train  came — and  I  rather  gathered  from 
what  he  said  a  little  bit  ago  to  Quintus  Q.,  in 
the  privacy  of  the  dining  room  while  I  was 
waiting  in  the  library,  that  he  was  considerably 
put  out  about  something.  His  voice  sounded 
peeved — especially  when  he  was  calling  Mont- 
joy's  attention  to  the  fact  that  even  if  he  should 
win  the  race  now,  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  take 
[276] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

the  oath  of  office.    Anyhow,  I  think  that's  what 
he  was  saying. 

"Say,  Judge,  just  for  curiosity's  sake  now 
and  strictly  between  ourselves — just  what  was 
the  message,  or  whatever  it  was,  that  you  sent 
over  to  Mont  joy's  right  after  dinner?  I  over 
heard  something  about  that  too.'* 

"Oh,  that?"  said  the  judge,  as  all  eyes 
turned  in  his  direction.  "That  was  jest  a 
spare  copy  of  the  Code  that  I  happened  to 
have  'round  the  house — with  a  page  in  it 
marked  and  turned  down." 

"The  Code— what  Code?"  Mr.  Tompkins 
pressed  the  point  like  the  alert  collector  of  news 
that  he  was. 

"The  Code  and  the  Statutes — with  the  accent 
on  the  Code,"  answered  the  old  judge,  simply. 
"Although,  speakin'  pussonally,  I  pay  more 
attention  to  the  Statutes  than  some  folks  do. 
In  fact  it  would  seem  like  some  persons  who  are 
reasonably  well  informed  on  most  subjects — 
ancestors  fur  instance — ain't  never  took  the 
time  to  peruse  them  old  Statutes  of  ourn  with 
the  care  they  should  give  to  'em  ef  they're 
aimin'  to  engage  in  the  job  of  bein*  a  states 
man."  He  faced  his  nephew.  "Tobe,  my  son, 
this  oughter  be  a  great  lesson  to  you — it's  a 
work  that'll  bear  consid'able  study  frum  time 
to  time.  I'm  afeared  you  ain't  ez  well  posted 
on  the  subject  ez  you  should  be.  Well,  this 
is  a  mighty  good  time  to  begin.  You  kin  take 
your  first  lesson  right  now." 
[277] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


He  stooped  and  lifted  the  lid  of  the  croquet 
box,  beneath  the  bench  upon  which  they  had 
been  sitting,  and  fetched  forth  a  large,  heavy 
volume,  bound  in  splotchy  law  calf.  "I  put 
my  other  copy  here  jest  a  little  while  ago, 
thinkin'  somebody  might  be  interested  later 
on  in  its  contents,"  he  explained  as  he  ran 
through  the  leaves  until  he  came  to  a  certain 
page.  Upon  that  page,  with  a  blunt  forefinger, 
he  indicated  a  certain  paragraph  as  he  handed 
the  tome  over  to  his  nephew. 

"There,  Tobe,"  he  ordered,  "you've  got  a 
good  strong  voice.  Read  this  here  section — 
aloud." 

So  then,  while  the  others  listened,  with 
slowly  widening  grins  of  comprehension  upon 
their  several  faces,  and  while  Judge  Priest  stood 
alongside,  smiling  softly,  young  Tobe  read. 
And  what  he  read  was  this: 

"OATH  TO  BE  TAKEN  BY  ALL  OFFICERS — 
FORM  OF.  Members  of  the  General  Assembly 
and  all  officers,  before  they  enter  upon  the 
execution  of  the  duties  of  their  respective 
offices,  and  all  members  of  the  bar,  before  they 
enter  upon  the  practice  of  their  profession, 
shall  take  the  following  oath  or  affirmation: 
I  do  solemnly  swear  (or  affirm,  as  the  case  may 
be)  that  I  will  support  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  and  the  Constitution  of  this 
Commonwealth,  and  be  faithful  and  true  to  the 
Commonwealth  of  Kentucky  so  long  as  I  con 
tinue  a  citizen  thereof,  and  that  I  will  faith- 
[278] 


ACCORDING     TO     THE     CODE 

fully  execute,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  the 

office  of according  to  law; 

and  I  do  solemnly  swear  (or  affirm)  that  since 
the  adoption  of  the  present  Constitution,  I, 
being  a  citizen  of  this  State,  have  not  fought 
a  duel  with  deadly  weapons  within  this  State, 
nor  out  of  it,  nor  have  I  sent  or  accepted  a 
challenge  to  fight  a  duel  with  deadly  weapons, 
nor  have  I  acted  as  second  in  carrying  a  chal 
lenge,  nor  aided  or  assisted  any  person  thus 
offending,  so  help  me  God." 

Having  read  it  aloud,  young  Houser  now  re 
read  it  silently  to  himself.  He  was  rather  a 
slow-thinking  and  direct-minded  person.  Per 
haps  time  was  needed  for  the  full  force  and 
effect  of  the  subject-matter  to  soak  into  him. 
It  was  Mr.  Tompkins  who  spoke  next. 

"Judge  Priest,"  he  said,  "what  do  you 
suppose  those  two  fellows  over  yonder  at 
Mont  joy's  are  thinking  about  you  right  now?" 

"Henry,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "fur  thinkin' 
whut  they  do  about  me,  I  reckin  both  of  them 
boys  could  be  churched." 


[279] 


VII 
FORREST'S   LAST    CHARGE 


TOWARD  morning,  after  a  spell  of  un 
usually  even-tempered  and   moderate 
weather,  it  blew  up  cold,  snowed  hard 
for  two  or  three  hours,  and  turned  off 
to  be  clear  and  freezing.     The  sun,  coming  up 
at  seven-thirty-five,  according  to  his  curtailed 
December  schedule,  peeped  out  on  a  universe 
that  was  clothed  all  in  white,  whereas  when  he 
retired  the  night  before  in  his  west  bedroom  he 
left  it  wearing  a  motley  of  faded  yellows  and 
seasoned  greens.    Swinging  in   the  east   as    a 
pale  coppery  disk,  he   blinked    his    astonish 
ment  through  a  ragged  grey  veil  of  the  last 
of  the  storm  clouds. 

Others  beside  the  sun  were  taken  by  surprise. 
It  was  the  first  snowfall  of  the  year  and  a  good, 
hard,  heavy  one.  Down  our  way,  some  winters, 
we  had  hardly  any  snows  at  all;  then,  again, 
some  winters  we  had  a  plenty ;  but  scarcely  ever 
did  we  have  them  before  Christmas.  This  one 
came  as  a  profound  and  an  annoying  visitation, 
[  280  ] 


LAST      CHARGE 


taking  the  community  at  large  unawares  and 
unprepared,  and  making  a  great  nuisance  of 
itself  from  the  start.  Practically  without  excep 
tion,  doorstep  hydrants  had  tight  colds  in  the 
head  that  morning.  On  being  treated  with 
lavings  of  hot  water  they  dripped  catarrhally 
from  their  cast-iron  noses  for  a  little  while 
and  then  developed  the  added  symptoms  of 
icicles. 

Cooks  were  hours  late  coming  to  cook  break 
fast,  and  when  they  did  come  uttered  despairing 
moans  to  find  range  boilers  frozen  up  and 
kitchen  taps  utterly  unresponsive  to  first-aid 
measures.  At  some  houses  it  was  nearly  eight 
o'clock  before  the  milkman  got  round,  with 
wooden  runners  under  his  milk  wagon  in  place 
of  wheels  and  rosaries  of  rusted  sleigh  bells  on 
the  necks  of  his  smoking  team.  Last  year's 
rubber  boots  came  out  of  the  closet  and  any  old 
year's  toy  sled  came  out  of  the  attic. 

The  old  negro  man  who  did  whitewashing  in 
the  spring,  picked  blackberries  for  his  summer 
time  living,  and  in  the  fall  peddled  corn-shuck 
doormats  and  scaly-bark  hickory  nuts,  made  the 
circuit  of  his  regular  patrons,  equipped  with  a 
shovel  over  his  shoulder  and  his  venerable  feet 
done  up  in  burlaps,  to  shovel  footpaths  for  a 
price.  Where  the  wind  piled  the  snow  in  little 
drifts  he  left  a  wake  behind  him  as  though  a 
baby  elephant  had  floundered  through  there. 

In  the  back  yard  Sir  Rooster  squawked  his 
loud  disgust  as  his  naked  legs  sank  shank-deep 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


into  the  feathery  mass.  His  harem,  a  row  of 
still  and  huddled  shapes  on  the  roosts,  clamped 
their  chilled  toes  all  the  tighter  to  their  perch 
and  stared  out  through  the  chicken-house  door 
at  a  transformed  and  unfamiliar  world.  With 
them  —  except  for  their  eyes  —  rigor  mortis 
seemed  far  advanced.  Small  boys,  rabbit  dogs, 
plumbers  and  the  few  persons  in  town  who 
owned  sleighs  rejoiced.  Housewives,  house  cats 
and  thin-blooded  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  were 
acutely  miserable — and  showed  it. 

There  were  tramps  about  in  numbers.  It  took 
a  sudden  cold  snap,  with  snow  accompaniments 
such  as  this  one,  to  fetch  the  tramps  forth  from 
their  sleeping  places  near  the  tracks,  and  make 
the  citizen  realise  how  many  of  these  south 
bound  soldiers  of  misfortune  the  town  harboured 
on  any  given  date  between  Thanksgiving  Day 
and  New  Year's.  Judge  Priest  did  not  know  it 
—and  probably  would  not  have  much  cared  if 
he  had  known  it — but  on  the  right-hand-side 
post  of  his  front  gate,  just  below  the  wooden 
letter  box,  was  scratched  the  talismanic  sign 
which,  to  an  initiated  nation-wide  brotherhood, 
signified  that  here,  at  this  place,  was  to  be  had 
free  and  abundant  provender,  with  no  stove 
wood  to  chop  afterward  and  no  heavy  buckets 
of  coal  to  pack  in. 

Wherefore  and  hence,  throughout  the  rising 

hour  and  well  on  into  the  forenoon,  a  succession 

of  ragged   and   shivering  travellers  tracked  a 

straggling  path  up  his  walk  and  round  to  the 

[282] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHA  R  G  E 

back  door,  coming,  with  noses  a  frostbitten  red 
and  hands  a  frostbitten  blue,  to  beg  for  suste 
nance.  It  was  part  and  parcel  of  the  judge's 
creed  of  hospitality  to  turn  no  stranger  away 
from  his  door  unfed. 

"Jedge!"  Aunt  Dilsey  Turner  bulged  in 
to  the  old  sitting  room,  where  her  master  sat 
with  his  feet  close  to  the  grate  toasting  his 
shoesoles.  "Jedge,  they's  'nother  one  of  'em 
miz'ble  wuthless  w'ite  trash  out  yere  axin'  fur 
vittles.  Tha's  de  fo'th  one  inside  er  hour. 
Whut  you  reckin  I  best  do  wid  'im?" 

"Well,  Aunt  Dilsey,"  the  old  man  answered, 
"ef  vittles  is  what  he  asts  fur,  I  believe,  under 
the  circumstances,  I'd  give  him  some." 

"Whar  we  goin'  git  vittles  fur  Jim?"  she 
demanded. 

"Wasn't  there  anything  left  over  frum  break 
fast?"  He  risked  the  inquiry  mildly — almost 
timidly. 

"Breakfus'!"  She  sniffed  her  contempt  for 
masculine  ignorance.  "Breakfus'?  How  long 
does  you  think  one  HT  batch  of  breakfus'  is 
goin'  last  round  yere?  I  ain't  never  tek  much 
fur  myse'f — jes'  swallers  a  mossil  of  hot  coffee 
to  stay  my  stomach,  but  you's  suttinly  a  mighty 
stiddy  feeder;  and  ez  fur  'at  nigger  Jeff  of  yourn 
—huh! — he  acks  lak  he  wuz  holler  cl'ar  down 
to  his  insteps.  Ef  dat  nigger  had  de  right  name, 
de  name  would  be  Famine!  'Sides,  ain't  I  done 
tole  you  they's  been  three  of  dem  trafflin',  no- 
'count  vagroms  here  already  dis  mawnin', 
[283] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


a-eatin'  us  plum'  out  of  house  and  home?  Naw, 
suh;  dey  ain't  nary  grain  of  breakfus'  lef — de 
platters  is  done  lick'  clean!" 

"Well,  Aunt  Dilsey,ez  a  special  favour  to  me, 
I'd  be  mighty  much  obliged  to  you  ef  you'd  cook 
up  a  little  somethin'  fur  the  pore  feller." 

"Po*  feller!  Po',  you  sez?  Jedge,  dat  ole 
tramp  out  yonder  at  my  kitchen,  do'  is  mighty 
nigh  ez  fat  ez  whut  you  is.  Still,  you's  de  cap'n. 
Ef  you  sez  feed  'im,  feed  'im  I  does.  Only  don't 
you  come  round  blamin'  me  w'en  we-all  lands 
in  de  po'house — tha's  all  I  asts  you." 

And  out  the  black  tyrant  flounced,  leaving 
the  judge  grinning  to  himself.  Aunt  Dilsey's 
bark  was  worse  than  her  bite  and  there  was  no 
record  of  her  having  bitten  anybody.  Never 
theless,  in  order  to  make  sure  that  no  breakfast 
applicant  departed  hungry,  he  lingered  on  past 
his  usual  time  for  starting  the  day's  work.  It 
was  cozily  warm  in  his  sitting  room.  Court  was 
not  in  session  either,  having  adjourned  over  for 
the  holidays.  It  was  getting  well  on  toward  ten 
o'clock  when,  with  Jeff  Poindexter's  aid,  he 
struggled  into  his  ancient  caped  overcoat  and 
buckled  his  huge  red-lined  galoshes  on  over  his 
shoes,  and  started  downtown. 

Midway  of  the  next  block  a  snowball  sailed 
out  and  over  from  behind  a  hedge  fence  and 
knocked  his  old  black  slouch  hat  half  off  his 
head.  Showing  surprising  agility  for  one  of  his 
years  and  bulk,  he  ran  down  the  fleeing  sharp 
shooter  who  had  fired  on  him;  and,  while  with 
[284] 


FORREST     S     LAST     CHARGE 

one  hand  he  held  the  struggling  youngster  fast, 
with  the  other  he  vigorously  washed  his  cap 
tive's  face  in  loose  snow  until  the  captive  bawled 
for  mercy.  Then  the  judge  gave  him  a  dime  to 
console  him  for  his  punishment  and  went  on  his 
way  with  a  pleasant  tingling  in  his  blood  and  a 
ruby  tip  on  his  already  well-ruddied  nose. 

His  way  took  him  to  Soule's  Drug  Store,  the 
gathering  place  of  his  set  in  fair  weather  and  in 
foul.  He  was  almost  there  before  he  heard  of 
the  trouble.  It  was  Dave  Baum  who  brought 
the  first  word  of  it.  Seeing  him  pass,  Dave 
came  running,  bareheaded,  out  of  his  notions 
store. 

"Judge  Priest,  did  you  know  what's  just  hap 
pened?"  Dave  was  highly  excited.  "Why, 
Beaver  Yancy's  been  cut  all  to  pieces  with  a 
dirk  knife  by  one  of  those  Dagos  that  was 
brought  on  here  to  work  on  the  new  extension 
— that's  what  just  happened !  It  happened  just 
a  little  bit  ago,  down  there  where  they've  got 
those  Dagos  a-keepin'  'em.  Beave,  he  must've 
said  somethin'  out  of  the  way  to  him,  and  he 
just  up  with  his  dirk  knife  and  cut  Beave  to 
ribbons." 

Really  it  required  much  less  time  for  little 
Mr.  Baum  to  make  this  statement  than  it  has 
taken  for  me  to  transcribe  it  or  for  you  to  read 
it.  In  his  haste  he  ran  the  syllables  together. 
Dan  Settle  came  up  behind  them  in  time  to 
catch  the  last  words  and  he  pieced  out  the 

narrative : 

[285] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


"They  toted  poor  old  Beaver  into  Doctor 
Lake's  office — I  just  came  from  there — there's 
a  big  crowd  waitin'  to  hear  how  he  comes  out. 
They  don't  think  he's  goin'  to  live  but  a  little 
while.  They  ain't  got  the  one  that  did  the 
cuttin' — yet.  There's  quite  a  lot  of  feelin' 
already." 

"That's  what  the  railroad  gets  for  bringin'  all 
those  foreigners  down  here."  Mr.  Baum,  who 
was  born  in  Bavaria,  spoke  with  bitterness. 
"Judge,  what  do  you  think  ought  to  be  done 
about  this  business?" 

"Well,  son,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "to  begin 
with,  ef  I  was  you  I'd  run  back  inside  of  my 
store  and  put  my  hat  on  before  I  ketched  a  bad 
cold.  And  ef  I  was  the  chief  of  police  of  this 
city  I'd  find  the  accused  party  and  lock  him  up 
good  and  tight.  And  ef  I  was  everybody  else  I'd 
remain  ez  ca'm  ez  I  could  till  I'd  heared  both 
sides  of  the  case.  There's  nearly  always  two 
sides  to  every  case,  and  sometimes  there's  likely 
to  be  three  or  four  sides.  I  expect  to  impanel 
a  new  grand  jury  along  in  January  and  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  ef  they  looked  into  the 
matter  purty  thoroughly.  They  ginerally  do. 

"It's  too  bad,  though,  about  Beaver  Yancy!" 
added  the  judge;  "I  certainly  trust  he  pulls 
through.  Maybe  he  will — he's  powerful  husky. 
There's  one  consolation — he  hasn't  got  any 
family,  has  he?" 

And,  with  that,  Judge  Priest  left  them  and 
went  on  down  the  snow-piled  street  and  turned 
[286] 


FORREST     S     LAST     CHARGE 

in  at  Mr.  Soule's  door.  What  with  reading  a 
Louisville  paper  and  playing  a  long  game  of 
checkers  with  Squire  Rountree  behind  the  pre 
scription  case,  and  telephoning  to  the  adjutant 
regarding  that  night's  meeting  of  Gideon  K. 
Irons  Camp,  and  at  noontime  eating  a  cove 
oyster  stew  which  a  darky  brought  him  from 
SheriU's  short-order  restaurant,  two  doors  below, 
and  doing  one  thing  and  another,  he  spent  the 
biggest  part  of  the  day  inside  of  Soule's  and  so 
missed  his  chance  to  observe  the  growing  and 
the  mounting  of  popular  indignation. 

It  would  seem  Beaver  Yancy  had  more  friends 
than  any  unprejudiced  observer  would  have 
credited  him  with  having.  Mainly  they  were 
the  type  of  friends  who  would  not  have  lent  him 
so  much  as  fifty  cents  under  any  conceivable 
circumstance,  but  stood  ready  to  shed  human 
blood  on  his  account.  Likewise,  as  the  day  wore 
on,  and  the  snow,  under  the  melting  influence  of 
the  sun,  began  to  run  off  the  eaves  and  turn  to 
slush  in  the  streets,  a  strong  prejudice  against 
the  presence  of  alien  day  labourers  developed 
with  marvellous  and  sinister  rapidity. 

Yet,  had  those  who  cavilled  but  stopped  long 
enough  to  take  stock  of  things,  they  might  have 
read  this  importation  as  merely  one  of  the  mani 
festations  of  the  change  that  was  coming  over 
our  neck  of  the  woods — the  same  change  that 
had  been  coming  for  years,  and  the  same  that 
inevitably  would  continue  coming  through  years 
to  follow. 

[287] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


Take  for  example,  Legal  Row — that  short 
street  of  stubby  little  brick  buildings  where  all 
the  lawyers  and  some  of  the  doctors  had  their 
offices.  Summer  after  summer,  through  the 
long  afternoons,  the  tenants  had  sat  there  in 
cane-bottomed  chairs  tilted  back  against  the 
housefronts,  swapping  gossip  and  waiting  for  a 
dog  fight  or  a  watermelon  cutting  to  break  the 
monotony.  But  Legal  Row  was  gone  now  and 
lawyers  did  not  sit  out  on  the  sidewalks  any 
more;  it  was  not  dignified.  They  were  housed, 
most  of  them,  on  the  upper  floor  levels  of  the 
sky-scraping  Planters'  Bank  building.  Perhaps 
Easterners  would  not  have  rated  it  as  a  sky 
scraper;  but  in  our  country  the  skies  are  low  and 
friendly  skies,  and  a  structure  of  eight  stories, 
piled  one  on  the  other,  with  a  fancy  cornice  to 
top  off  with,  rears  mightily  high  and  imposing 
when  about  it,  for  contrast,  are  only  two  and 
three  and  four  story  buildings. 

Kettler's  wagon  yard,  where  the  farmers  used 
to  bring  their  tobacco  for  overnight  storage,  and 
where  they  slept  on  hay  beds  in  the  back  stalls, 
with  homemade  bedquUts  wrapped  round  them, 
had  been  turned  into  a  garage  and  smelled  now 
of  gasoline,  oils  and  money  transactions.  A  new 
brick  market  house  stood  on  the  site  of  the  old 
wooden  one.  A  Great  White  Way  that  was 
seven  blocks  long  made  the  business  district 
almost  as  bright  as  day  after  dark — almost,  but 
not  quite.  There  was  talk  of  establishing  a  civic 
centre,  with  a  regular  plaza,  and  a  fountain  in 
[288] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

the  middle  of  the  plaza.  There  was  talk  of  try 
ing  the  commission  form  of  government.  There 
was  talk  of  adopting  a  town  slogan;  talk  of  an 
automobile  club  and  of  a  country  club.  And 
now  white  labour,  in  place  of  black,  worked  on 
a  construction  job. 

When,  after  many  false  alarms,  the  P.  A.  & 
O.  V.  got  its  Boaz  Ridge  Extension  under  way 
the  contractors  started  with  negro  hands;  but 
the  gang  bosses  came  from  up  North,  whence 
the  capital  had  likewise  come,  and  they  did  not 
understand  the  negroes  and  the  negroes  did  not 
understand  them,  and  there  was  trouble  from 
the  go-off.  If  the  bosses  fraternised  with  the 
darkies  the  darkies  loafed;  if,  taking  the  oppo 
site  tack,  the  bosses  tried  to  drive  the  gangs 
under  them  with  hard  words  the  gangs  grew 
sullen  and  insolent. 

There  was  a  middle  ground,  but  the  perplexed 
whites  could  not  find  it.  A  Southern-born  over 
seer  or  a  Southern-born  steamboat  mate  could 
have  harried  the  crews  with  loud  profanity,  with 
dire  threats  of  mutilation  and  violent  death,  and 
they  would  have  grinned  back  at  him  cheerfully 
and  kept  right  on  at  their  digging  and  their 
shovelling.  But  when  a  grading  expert  named 
Flaherty,  from  Chicago,  Illinois,  shook  a  freckled 
fist  under  the  nose  of  one  Dink  Bailey,  coloured, 
for  whom,  just  the  night  before,  he  had  bought 
drinks  in  a  groggery,  the  aforesaid  Dink  Bailey 
tried  to  disarticulate  him  with  a  razor  and  made 
very  fair  headway  toward  the  completion  of  the 
[289] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


undertaking,  considering  he  was  so  soon  inter 
rupted. 

Having  a  time  limit  ever  before  their  pestered 
eyes,  it  sorely  irked  the  contractors  that,  where 
as  five  hundred  black,  brown  and  yellow  men 
might  drop  their  tools  Saturday  night  at  six 
o'clock,  a  scant  two  hundred  or  so  answered 
when  the  seven-o'clock  whistle  blew  on  Monday 
morning.  The  others  came  straggling  back  on 
Tuesday  or  Wednesday,  or  even  on  Thursday, 
depending  on  how  long  their  wages  held  out. 

"Whut  I  wants  to  go  to  work  fur,  Mist' 
Wite  Man?  I  got  'most  two  dollars  lef '.  Come 
round  to  see  me  w'en  all  dat's  done  spent  and 
mebbe  we  kin  talk  bus'ness  'en." 

The  above  statement,  made  by  a  truant  grad 
ing  hand  to  an  inquiring  grading  boss,  was 
typical  of  a  fairly  common  point  of  view  on 
the  side  of  Labour.  And  this  one,  below,  which 
sprang  from  the  exasperated  soul  of  a  visiting 
contractor,  was  just  as  typical,  for  it  was  the 
cry  of  outraged  Capital: 

"It  takes  two  white  men,  standing  over  every 
black  man,  to  make  the  black  man  work — and 
then  he  won't!  I  never  was  a  Southern  sym 
pathiser  before,  but  I  am  now — you  bet!" 

The  camel's  back  broke  entirely  at  the  end 
of  the  third  week.  It  was  a  green  paymaster 
from  the  Chicago  offices  who  furnished  the  last 
straw.  He  tried  to  pay  off  with  paper  money. 
Since  those  early  postbellum  days,  when  the 
black  brother,  being  newly  freed  from  servitude 
[290] 


FORREST     S     LAST     CHARGE 

and  innocently  devoid  of  the  commercial  in 
stinct,  thought  the  white  man's  money,  whether 
stamped  on  metal  disks  or  printed  on  parch 
ment  rectangulars,  was  always  good  money, 
and  so  accepted  much  Confederate  currency,  to 
his  sorrow  at  the  time  and  to  his  subsequent 
enlightenment,  he  has  nourished  a  deep  sus 
picion  of  all  cash  except  the  kind  that  jingles; 
in  fact,  it  is  rarely  that  he  will  accept  any  other 
sort. 

Give  him  the  hard  round  silver  and  he  is  well- 
content.  That  is  good  money — money  fit  to 
buy  things  with.  He  knows  it  is,  because  it 
rattles  in  the  pocket  and  it  rings  on  the  bar; 
but  for  him  no  greenbacks,  if  you  please.  So 
when  this  poor  ignorant  paymaster  opened  up 
his  satchel  and  spread  out  his  ones  and  his  twos, 
his  fives  and  his  tens,  his  treasury  certificates 
and  his  national  bank  notes,  there  was  a  riot. 

Then  the  contractors  just  fired  the  whole  out 
fit  bodily;  and  they  suspended  operations,  leav 
ing  the  fills  half-filled  and  the  cuts  half-dug 
until  they  could  fetch  new  shifts  of  labourers 
from  the  North.  They  fetched  them — a  train- 
load  of  overalled  Latins,  and  some  of  these  were 
tall  and  swarthy  men,  and  more  were  short, 
fair  men;  but  all  were  capable  of  doing  a  full 
day's  work. 

Speedily  enough,  the  town  lost  its  first  curious 

interest  in  the  newcomers.    Indeed,  there  was 

about  them  nothing  calculated  to  hold  the  public 

interest  long.    They  played  no  guitars,  wore  no 

[291] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


handkerchief  headdresses,  offered  to  kidnap  no 
small  children,  and  were  in  no  respect  a  pictur 
esque  race  of  beings.  They  talked  their  own 
outlandish  language,  dined  on  their  own  myste 
rious  messes,  slept  in  their  bunks  in  the  long 
barracks  the  company  knocked  together  for 
them  in  the  hollow  down  by  the  Old  Fort,  hived 
their  savings,  dealt  with  their  employers  through 
a  paid  translator,  and  beautifully  minded  their 
own  business,  which  was  the  putting  through  of 
the  Boaz  Ridge  Extension.  Sundays  a  few 
came  clunking  in  their  brogans  to  early  mass  in 
Father  Minor's  church;  the  rest  of  the  time  they 
spent  at  the  doing  of  their  daily  stint  or  in  camp 
at  their  own  peculiar  devices. 

Tony  Palassi,  who  ran  the  biggest  fruit  stand 
in  town,  paid  them  one  brief  visit — and  one 
only — and  came  away,  spitting  his  disgust  on 
the  earth.  It  appeared  that  they  were  not  his 
kind  of  people  at  all,  these  being  but  despised 
Sicilians  and  he  by  birth  a  haughty  Roman,  and 
by  virtue  of  naturalisation  processes  a  stalwart 
American;  but  everybody  knew  already,  without 
being  told,  that  there  was  a  difference,  and  a  big 
difference.  A  blind  man  could  see  it. 

Tony,  now,  was  a  good  fellow — one  with 
sporting  blood  in  his  veins.  Tony  was  a  member 
of  the  Elks  and  of  the  Knights  of  Columbus. 
He  owned  and  he  drove  one  of  the  smartest 
trotting  horses  in  the  county.  He  played  a  brisk 
game  of  poker.  Once  a  month  he  sent  a  barrel  of 
apples  or  a  bunch  of  bananas  or  a  box  of  oranges, 
[292] 


LAST     CHARGE 


as  a  freewill  offering,  to  the  children  out  at  the 
Home  for  the  Friendless — in  short,  Tony  be 
longed.  Nobody  ever  thought  of  calling  Tony 
a  Dago,  and  nobody  ever  had — more  than  once; 
but  these  other  fellows,  plainly,  were  Dagos  and 
to  be  regarded  as  such.  For  upward  of  a  month 
now  their  presence  in  the  community  had  meant 
little  or  nothing  to  the  community,  one  way  or 
the  other,  until  one  of  them  so  far  forgot  himself 
as  to  carve  up  Beaver  Yancy. 

The  railroad  made  a  big  mistake  when  it  hired 
Northern  bosses  to  handle  black  natives;  it  made 
another  when  it  continued  to  retain  Beaver 
Yancy,  of  our  town,  in  its  employ  after  the  Sicil 
ians  came,  he  being  a  person  long  of  the  arm  and 
short  of  the  temper.  Even  so,  things  might 
have  gone  forward  to  a  conclusion  without  mis 
adventure  had  it  not  been  that  on  the  day 
before  the  snow  fell  the  official  padrone  of  the 
force,  who  was  likewise  the  official  interpreter, 
went  North  on  some  private  business  of  his  own, 
leaving  his  countrymen  without  an  intermediary 
during  his  absence.  It  came  to  pass,  therefore, 
that  on  the  December  morning  when  this  account 
properly  begins,  Beaver  Yancy  found  himself 
in  sole  command  of  a  battalion  whose  tongue  he 
did  not  speak  and  whose  ways  he  did  not  know. 

At  starting  time  he  ploughed  his  way  through 
the  drifts  to  the  long  plank  shanty  in  the  bot 
toms  and  threw  open  a  door.  Instead  of  being 
up  and  stirring,  his  charges  lay  in  their  bunks 
against  the  walls,  all  of  them  stretched  out 
[293] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


comfortably  there,  except  a  half  dozen  or  so  who 
brewed  garlicky  mixtures  on  the  big  stoves  that 
stood  at  intervals  in  a  row  down  the  middle  of 
the  barracks.  Employing  the  only  language  he 
knew,  which  was  a  profanely  emphatic  language, 
he  ordered  them  to  get  up,  get  out  and  get  to 
work.  By  shakes  of  the  head,  by  words  of  smil 
ing  dissent  and  by  gestures  they  made  it  plain  to 
his  understanding  that  for  this  one  day  at  least 
they  meant  to  do  no  labour  in  the  open. 

One  more  tolerant  than  Beaver  Yancy,  or 
perhaps  one  more  skilled  at  translating  signs, 
would  have  divined  their  reasons  readily  enough. 
They  had  come  South  expecting  temperate 
weather.  They  did  not  like  snow.  They  were 
not  clad  for  exposure  to  snow.  Their  garments 
were  thin  and  their  shoes  leaked.  Therefore 
would  they  abide  where  they  were  until  the 
snow  had  melted  and  the  cold  had  moderated. 
Then  they  would  work  twice  as  hard  to  make  up 
for  this  holiday. 

The  burly,  big,  overbearing  man  in  the  door 
way  was  of  a  different  frame  of  mind.  In  the 
absence  of  his  superior  officers  and  the  padrone, 
his  duty  was  to  see  that  they  pushed  that  job 
to  a  conclusion.  He'd  show  'em!  He  would 
make  an  example  of  one  and  the  others  would 
heed  the  lesson.  He  laid  violent  grasp  on  a  little 
man  who  appeared  to  be  a  leader  of  opinion 
among  his  fellows  and,  with  a  big,  mittened  hand 
in  the  neckband  of  the  other's  shirt,  dragged 
him,  sputtering  and  expostulating,  across  the 
[294] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

threshold  and,  with  hard  kicks  of  a  heavy  foot, 
heavily  booted,  propelled  him  out  into  the  open. 

The  little  man  fell  face  forward  into  the  snow. 
He  bounced  up  like  a  chunk  of  new  rubber.  He 
had  been  wounded  most  grievously  in  his 
honour,  bruised  most  painfully  and  ignomin- 
iously  elsewhere.  He  jumped  for  the  man  who 
had  mishandled  hinvhis  knifeblade  licking  out 
like  a  snake's  tongue.  He  jabbed  three  times, 
hard  and  quick — then  fled  back  indoors;  and  for 
a  while,  until  help  came  in  the  guise  of  two  chil 
dren  of  a  shanty-boater's  family  on  their  way  to 
the  railroad  yards  to  pick  up  bits  of  coal,  Beaver 
Yancy  lay  in  the  snow  where  he  had  dropped, 
bleeding  like  a  stuck  pig.  He  was  not  exactly 
cut  to  ribbons.  First  accounts  had  been  exag 
gerated  as  first  accounts  so  frequently  are.  But 
he  had  two  holes  in  his  right  lung  and  one  in  the 
right  side  of  his  neck,  and  it  was  strongly  pre 
sumptive  that  he  would  never  again  kick  a 
Sicilian  day  labourer — or,  for  that  matter,' any 
body  else. 

Judge  Priest,  speaking  dispassionately  from 
the  aloof  heights  of  the  judicial  temperament, 
had  said  it  would  be  carrying  out  an  excellent 
and  timely  idea  if  the  chief  of  police  found  the 
knife-using  individual  and  confined  him  in  a 
place  that  was  safe  and  sound;  which,  on  being 
apprised  of  the  occurrence,  was  exactly  what  the 
chief  of  police  undertook  to  do.  Accompanied 
by  two  dependable  members  of  his  day  shift,  he 
very  promptly  set  out  to  make  an  arrest  and  an 
[  295  1 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


investigation;  but  serious  obstacles  confronted 
him. 

To  begin  with,  he  had  not  the  faintest  notion 
of  the  criminal's  identity  or  the  criminal's  ap 
pearance.  The  man  he  wanted  was  one  among 
two  hundred;  but  which  one  was  he?  Beaver 
Yancy,  having  been  treated  in  Doctor  Lake's 
office,  was  now  at  the  city  hospital  in  no  condi 
tion  to  tell  the  name  of  his  assailant  even  had  he 
known  it,  or  to  describe  him  either,  seeing  that 
loss  of  blood,  pain,  shock  and  drugs  had  put  him 
beyond  the  power  of  coherent  speech.  Never 
theless,  the  chief  felt  it  a  duty  incumbent  on 
him  to  lose  no  time  in  visiting  what  the  Daily 
Evening  News,  with  a  touch  of  originality,  called 
"the  scene  of  the  crime."  This  he  did. 

Everything  was  quiet  on  the  flatlands  below 
the  Old  Fort  when  he  got  there,  an  hour  after 
the  stabbing.  Midway  between  the  bluff  that 
marked  the  rim  of  the  hollow  and  the  fringe  of 
willows  along  the  river,  stood  the  long  plank 
barracks  of  the  imported  hands.  Smoke  rose 
from  the  stovepipes  that  broke  the  expanse  of 
its  snow-covered  roof;  about  one  door  was  a 
maze  of  tracks  and  crosstracks;  at  a  certain 
place,  which  was,  say,  seventy-five  feet  from 
the  door,  the  snow  was  wallowed  and  flurried  as 
though  a  heavy  oxhide  had  been  dragged  across 
its  surface;  and  right  there  a  dark  spot  showed 
reddish  brown  against  the  white  background. 

However,  no  figures  moved  and  no  faces 
showed  at  the  small  windows  as  the  chief  and 
[296] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

his  men,  having  floundered  down  the  hill,  cau 
tiously  approached  the  silent  building;  and  when 
he  knocked  on  the  door  with  the  end  of  his  hick 
ory  walking  stick,  and  knocked  and  knocked 
again,  meantime  demanding  admittance  in  the 
name  of  the  law,  no  one  answered  his  knock  or 
his  hail.  Losing  patience,  he  put  his  shoulder  to 
the  fastened  door  and,  with  a  heave,  broke  it 
away  from  its  hinges  and  its  hasp,  so  that  it 
fell  inward. 

Through  the  opening  he  took  a  look,  then  felt 
in  his  overcoat  pocket  for  his  gun,  making  ready 
to  check  a  rush  with  revolver  shots  if  needs  be; 
but  there  was  no  rush.  Within  the  place  two 
hundred  frightened,  desperate  men  silently  con 
fronted  him.  Some  who  had  pistols  were  wear 
ing  them  now  in  plain  sight.  Others  had 
knives  and  had  produced  them.  All  had  picks 
and  shovels — dangerous  enough  weapons  at 
close  quarters  in  the  hands  of  men  skilled  in  the 
use  of  them. 

Had  the  big-hatted  chief  been  wise  in  the  ways 
of  these  men,  he  might  peacefully  have  attained 
his  object  by  opening  his  topcoat  and  showing 
his  blue  uniform,  his  brass  buttons  and  his  gold 
star;  but  naturally  he  did  not  think  of  that,  and 
as  he  stood  there  before  them,  demanding  of  them, 
in  a  language  they  did  not  know,  to  surrender 
the  guilty  one,  he  was  ulstered,  like  any  civilian, 
from  his  throat  to  the  tops  of  his  rubber  boots. 

In  him  the  foreigners,  bewildered  by  the  sud 
den  turn  in  events,  saw  only  a  menacing  enemy 
[297] 


OLD     JUDGE     PR  I  E  S  T 


coming^  with  no  outward  show  of  authority 
about  him,  to  threaten  them.  They  went  right 
on  at  their  task  of  barricading  the  windows  with 
strips  of  planking  torn  from  their  bunks.  They 
had  food  and  they  had  fuel,  and  they  had  arms. 
They  would  stand  a  siege,  and  if  they  were 
attacked  they  would  fight  back.  In  all  they  did, 
in  all  their  movements,  in  their  steadfast  stare, 
he  read  their  intent  plainly  enough. 

Gabriel  Henley  was  no  coward,  else  he  would 
not  have  been  serving  his  second  term  as  our 
chief  of  police;  but  likewise  and  furthermore  he 
was  no  fool.  He  remembered  just  then  that 
the  town  line  ended  at  the  bluff  behind  him. 
Technically,  at  least,  the  assault  on  Beaver 
Yancy  had  been  committed  outside  his  jurisdic 
tion;  constructively  this  job  was  not  a  job  for 
the  city,  but  for  the  county  officials.  He  backed 
away,  and  as  he  retired  sundry  strong  brown 
hands  replaced  the  broken  door  and  began  mak 
ing  it  fast  with  props  and  improvised  bars.  The 
chief  left  his  two  men  behind  to  keep  watch — an 
entirely  unnecessary  precaution,  since  none  of 
the  beleaguered  two  hundred,  as  it  turned  out, 
had  the  slightest  intention  of  quitting  his  pres 
ent  shelter;  and  he  hurried  back  uptown,  pon 
dering  the  situation  as  he  went. 

On  his  way  to  the  sheriff's  office  he  stopped 
by  Palassi's  fruit  store.  As  the  only  man  in  town 
who  could  deal  with  Sicilians  in  their  own 
tongue,  Tony  might  help  out  tremendously;  but 
Tony  wasn't  in.  Mrs.  Palassi,  nee  Callahan, 
[298] 


LAST     CHARGE 


regretted  to  inform  him  that  Tony  had  departed 
for  Memphis  on  the  early  train  to  see  about  cer 
tain  delayed  Christmas  shipments  of  oranges 
and  bananas.  To  the  youth  of  our  town  oranges 
and  bananas  were  almost  as  necessary  as  fire 
crackers  in  the  proper  celebration  of  the  Christ 
mas.  And  when  he  got  to  the  courthouse  the 
chief  found  the  sheriff  was  not  in  town  either. 
He  had  started  at  daylight  for  Hopkinsburg  to 
deliver  an  insane  woman  at  the  state  asylum 
there;  one  of  his  deputies  had  gone  with  him. 
There  was  a  second  deputy,  to  be  sure;  but  he 
was  an  elderly  man  and  a  chronic  rheumatic, 
who  mainly  handled  the  clerical  affairs  of  the 
office — he  never  had  tried  to  arrest  anyone  in  his 
whole  life,  and  he  expressed  doubt  that  the  pres 
ent  opportunity  was  auspicious  for  an  opening 
experiment  in  that  direction. 

Under  the  circumstances,  with  the  padrone 
away,  with  Tony  Palassi  away,  with  the  sheriff 
away,  and  with  the  refuge  of  the  culprit  under 
close  watch,  Chief  of  Police  Henley  decided  just 
to  sit  down  and  wait— wait  for  developments; 
wait  for  guidance;  perhaps  wait  for  popular 
sentiment  to  crystallize  and,  in  process  of  its 
crystallization,  give  him  a  hint  as  to  the  steps 
proper  to  be  taken  next.  So  he  sat  him  down  at 
his  roll-top  desk  in  the  old  City  Hall,  with  his 
feet  on  the  stove,  and  he  waited. 

Had  our  efficient  chief  divined  the  trend  of 
opinion  as  it  was  to  be  expressed  during  the  day 
by  divers  persons  in  divers  parts  of  the  town,  it 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


is  possible  he  might  have  done  something, 
though  just  what  that  something  might  have 
been,  I  for  one  confess  I  do  not  know — and  I 
do  not  think  the  chief  knew  either.  There  was  a 
passion  of  anger  abroad.  This  anger  was  to  rise 
and  spread  when  word  circulated — as  it  very 
shortly  did — that  those  other  Dagos  were  har 
bouring  and  protecting  the  particular  Dago  who 
had  done  the  cutting. 

Such  being  the  case,  did  not  that  make  them 
outlaws  too — accessories  after  the  fact,  comale- 
f actors?  The  question  was  asked  a  good  many 
times  in  a  good  many  places  and  generally  the 
answer  was  the  same.  And  how  about  letting 
these  murderous,  dirk-toting  pauper  labourers 
come  pouring  down  from  the  slums  of  the  great 
cities  to  take  the  bread  right  out  of  the  mouths 
of  poor,  hard-working  darkies?  With  the  sud 
den  hostility  to  the  white  stranger  rose  an 
equally  sudden  sympathy  for  the  lot  of  the  black 
neighbour  whose  place  he  had  usurped.  Be 
sides,  who  ever  saw  one  of  the  blamed  Dagos 
spending  a  cent  at  a  grocery,  or  a  notions  store, 
or  a  saloon — or  anywhere?  Money  earned  in 
the  community  ought  to  be  spent  in  the  com 
munity.  What  did  the  railroad  mean  by  it 
anyway? 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  somebody 
told  somebody  else — who,  in  turn,  told  every 
body  he  met — that  poor  old  Beaver  was  sinking 
fast;  the  surgeons  agreed  that  he  could  not  live 
the  night  out.  Despite  the  rutted  snow  under- 
[300] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

foot  and  the  chill  temperature,  now  rapidly 
dropping  again  to  the  freezing  point  and  below 
it,  knots  of  men  began  to  gather  on  the  streets 
discussing  one  topic — and  one  only. 

Standing  at  the  Richland  House  corner  and 
addressing  an  entirely  congenial  gathering  of 
fifteen  or  so  who  had  just  emerged  from  the 
Richland  House  bar,  wiping  their  mouths  and 
thejr  moustaches,  a  self-appointed  spokesman 
ventured  the  suggestion  that  it  had  been  a  long 
time  between  lynchings.  Maybe  if  people  just 
turned  in  and  mobbed  a  few  of  these  blood 
thirsty  Dagos  it  would  give  the  rest  of  them  a 
little  respect  for  law  and  order?  What  if  they 
didn't  get  the  one  that  did  the  cutting?  They 
could  get  a  few  of  his  friends,  couldn't  they — and 
chase  all  the  others  out  of  the  country,  and  out 
of  the  state?  Well,  then,  what  more  could  a 
fair-minded  citizen  ask?  And  if  the  police  force 
could  not  or  would  not  do  its  duty  in  the  prem 
ises,  was  it  not  up  to  the  people  themselves  to 
act? — or  words  to  that  general  effect.  In  the  act 
of  going  back  inside  for  another  round  of  drinks 
the  audience  agreed  with  the  orator  unani 
mously,  and  invited  him  to  join  them;  which  he 
did. 

Serenely  unaware  of  these  things,  Judge  Priest 
spent  his  day  at  Soule's  Drug  Store,  beat  Squire 
Roundtree  at  checkers,  went  trudging  home  at 
dusk  for  supper  and,  when  supper  was  eaten, 
came  trudging  back  downtown  again,  still  hap 
pily  ignorant  of  the  feeling  that  was  in  the  icy 
[301] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


air.  Eight  o'clock  found  him  in  the  seat  of 
honour  on  the  platform  at  Kamleiter's  Hall, 
presiding  over  the  regular  semi-monthly  meet 
ing  of  Gideon  K.  Irons  Camp. 

Considering  weather  conditions,  the  judge,  as 
commandant,  felt  a  throb  of  pride  at  the  size  of 
the  attendance.  Twenty-two  elderly  gentlemen 
answered  to  their  names  when  the  adjutant,  old 
Professor  Reese,  of  the  graded  school,  called  the 
roll.  Two  or  three  more  straggled  in,  bundled 
up  out  of  all  their  proper  proportions,  in  time  to 
take  part  in  the  subsequent  discussion  of  new 
business.  Under  that  elastic  heading  the  Camp 
agreed  to  co-operate  with  the  Daughters  in  a 
campaign  to  raise  funds  for  a  monument  to  the 
memory  of  General  Meriwether  Grider,  dead 
these  many  years;  voted  fifty  dollars  out  of  the 
Camp  treasury  for  the  relief  of  a  dead  comrade's 
widow;  and  listened  to  a  reminiscence  of  the 
retreat  from  Atlanta  by  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby. 

One  overhearing  might  have  gathered  from 
the  tenor  of  the  sergeant's  remarks  that,  if 
King's  Hell  Hounds  had  !been  given  but  the 
proper  support  in  that  campaign,  the  story  of 
Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea  would  have  a  vastly 
different  ending  from  the  one  set  forth  in  the 
schoolbooks  and  the  histories.  In  conclusion, 
and  by  way  of  a  diversion  from  the  main  topic, 
Sergeant  Bagby  was  launching  on  a  circum 
stantial  recital  of  a  certain  never-to-be-forgotten 
passage  of  words  between  General  Buckner  and 
[302] 


FORREST     S     LAST     CHARGE 

General  Breckenridge  on  a  certain 'momentous 
and  historic  occasion,  when  an  interruption 
occurred,  causing  him  to  break  off  in  the  middle 
of  his  opening  sentence. 

Old  Press  Harper,  from  three  miles  out  in  the 
county,  was  sitting  well  back  toward  the  rear  of 
the  little  hall.  It  is  possible  that  his  attention 
wandered  from  the  subject  in  hand.  He  chanced 
to  glance  over  his  shoulder  and,  through  the 
frosted  panes  of  a  back  window,  he  caught  a 
suffused  reflection.  Instantly  he  was  on  his  feet. 

"Hey,  boys!"  called  out  Mr.  Harper.  "Some- 
thin's  on  fire — looky  yander!" 

He  ran  to  the  window.  With  his  sleeve  he 
rubbed  a  patch  clear  on  the  sweated  pane  and 
peered  out.  Others  followed  him.  Sashes  were 
hoist,  and  through  each  of  the  three  window 
openings  in  the  back  wall  protruded  a  cluster  of 
heads — heads  that  were  pinky-bald,  grey-griz 
zled  or  cottony-white,  as  the  case  might  be. 

"You  bet  there's  a  fire,  and  a  good  hot  one! 
See  them  blazes  shootin'  up." 

"  Must  be  down  by  the  Old  Fort.  D'ye  reckin 
it  could  be  the  old  plough  factory  burnin'  up?" 

"Couldn't  be  that  far  away,  could  it,  Bony? 
Looks  closer 'n  that  to  me." 

"Fires  always  seem  closer  than  what  they 
really  are — that's  been  my  experience." 

"Listen,  boys,  for  the  engines — they  ought 
to  be  startin'  now  in  a  minute." 

They  listened;  but,  though  the  fire  bell  in  the 
City  Hall  tower,  two  blocks  away,  was  sounding 
[303] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


in  measured  beats,  no  clatter  of  hoof  s,  no  clamour 
of  fast-turning  wheels,  rose  in  the  street  below  or 
in  any  neighbouring  street,  Only  the  red  flare 
widened  across  the  northern  horizon,  deepening 
and  brightening,  and  shot  through  in  its  centre 
with  lacings  of  flame. 

"That's  funny!  I  don't  hear  'em.  Well, 
anyway,  I'm  a-goin'." 

"Me,  too,  Press." 

The  windows  were  abandoned.  There  was  a 
rush  for  the  corner  where  overcoats  had  been 
swung  on  hooks  and  overshoes  had  been  kicked 
back  against  the  baseboard.  Various  elderly 
gentlemen  began  adjusting  earmuffs  and 
mufflers,  and  spearing  with  their  arms  at  elusive 
sleeve  openings.  The  meeting  stood  adjourned 
without  having  been  adjourned. 

"Coming,  Billy?"  inquired  Mr.  Nap.  B. 
Crump  in  the  act  of  hastily  winding  two  yards 
of  red  knitted  worsted  about  his  throat. 

"No;  I  reckin  not,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "It's 
a  mighty  bitter  night  fur  folks  to  be  driv'  out  of 
their  homes  in  this  weather.  I'm  sorry  fur  'em, 
whoever  they  are — but  I  reckin  I  couldn't  do  no 
good  ef  I  went.  You  young  fellers  jest  go  ahead 
without  me — I'm  sort  of  gittin'  along  too  fur  in 
years  to  be  runnin'  to  other  people's  fires.  I've 
got  one  of  my  own  to  go  to — out  there  in  my  old 
settin'  room  on  Clay  Street." 

He  rose  slowly  from  his  chair  and  stepped 
round  from  behind  the  table,  then  halted,  cant- 
ing  his  head  to  one  side. 
[  304  ] 


LAST     CHARGE 


"Listen,  boys!  Ain't  that  somebody  runnin5 
up  the  steps?" 

It  surely  was.  There  was  a  thud  of  booted 
feet  on  the  creaking  boards.  Somebody  was 
coming  three  stairs  at  a  jump.  The  door  flew 
open  and  Circuit  Clerk  Elisha  Milam  staggered 
in,  gasping  for  breath.  They  assailed  him  with 
questions. 

"Hey,  Lisha,  where's  the  fire?" 

"It's  that  construction  camp  down  below 
town  burning  up,"  he  answered  between  pants. 

"How  did  it  get  started?" 

"It  didn't  get  started — somebody  started  it. 
Gentlemen,  there's  trouble  beginning  down 
yonder.  Where's  Judge  Priest?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes, 
there  he  is!" 

He  made  for  Judge  Priest  where  the  judge  still 
stood  on  the  little  platform,  and  all  the  rest 
trailed  behind  him,  scrouging  up  to  form  a  close 
circle  about  those  two,  with  hands  stirruped 
behind  faulty  ears  and  necks  craned  forward  to 
hear  what  Mr.  Milam  had  to  say.  His  story 
wasn't  long,  the  blurting  way  he  told  it,  but  it 
carried  an  abundant  thrill.  Acting  apparently 
in  concert  with  others,  divers  unknown  persons, 
creeping  up  behind  the  barracks  of  the  construc 
tion  crew,  had  fired  the  building  and  fled  safely 
away  without  being  detected  by  its  dwellers  or 
by  the  half -frozen  watchers  of  the  police  force  on 
the  hillock  above.  At  least  that  was  the  pre 
sumption  in  Mr.  Milam's  mind,  based  on  what 

he  had  just  heard. 

[305  ] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


The  fire,  spreading  fast,  had  driven  the  Sicil 
ians  forth,  and  they  were  now  massed  under  the 
bluff  with  their  weapons.  The  police  force — 
eight  men,  all  told,  constituted  the  night  shift — 
hesitated  to  act,*  inasmuch  as  the  site  of  the 
burning  camp  lay  fifty  yards  over  the  town  line, 
outside  of  town  limits.  The  fire  department 
was  helpless.  Notice  had  been  served  at  both 
the  engine  houses,  in  the  first  moment  of  the 
alarm,  that  if  the  firemen  unreeled  so  much  as  a 
single  foot  of  hose  it  would  be  cut  with  knives — 
a  vain  threat,  since  all  the  water  plugs  were 
frozen  up  hard  and  fast  anyhow.  The  sheriff 
and  his  only  able-bodied  deputy  were  in  Hop- 
kinsburg,  eighty  miles  away;  and  an  armed  mob 
of  hundreds  was  reported  as  being  on  the  way 
from  its  rendezvous  in  the  abandoned  plough 
factory  to  attack  the  foreigners. 

Mr.  Milam,  essentially  a  man  of  peace,  had 
learned  these  things  at  first  hand,  or  at 
second,  and  had  hastened  hotfoot  to  Kam- 
leiter's  Hall  for  the  one  man  to  whom,  in  times 
of  emergency,  he  always  looked — his  circuit- 
court  judge.  He  didn't  know  what  Judge  Priest 
could  do  or  would  do  in  the  face  of  a  situation  so 
grave;  but  at  least  he  had  done  his  duty — he  had 
borne  the  word.  In  a  dozen  hasty  gulping  sen 
tences  he  told  his  tale  and  finished  it;  and  then, 
by  way  of  final  punctuation,  a  chorus  of  exclam 
atory  sounds — whistled,  grunted  and  wheezed — 
rose  from  his  auditors. 

As  for  Judge  Priest,  he,  for  a  space  of  seconds 
[306] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

after  Mr.  Milam  had  concluded,  said  nothing  at 
all.  The  rapping  of  his  knuckled  fist  on  the 
tabletop  alongside  him  broke  in  sharply  on  the 
clamour.  They  faced  him  then  and  he  faced 
them;  and  it  is  possible  that,  even  in  the  excite 
ment  of  the  time,  some  among  them  marked  how 
his  plump  jaws  had  socketed  themselves  into  a 
hard,  square-mortise  shape,  and  how  his  tuft  of 
white  chin  beard  bristled  out  at  them,  and  how 
his  old  blue  eyes  blazed  into  their  eyes.  And 
then  Judge  Priest  made  a  speech  to  them — a 
short,  quick  speech,  but  the  best  speech,  so  his 
audience  afterward  agreed,  that  ever  they  heard 
him  make. 

"Boys,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  high,  shrill  voice 
yet  higher  and  yet  shriller,  "I'm  about  to  put  a 
motion  to  you  and  I  want  a  vote  on  it  purty  dam' 
quick!  They've  been  sayin'  in  this  town  that  us 
old  soldiers  was  gittin'  too  old  to  take  an  active 
hand  in  the  affairs  of  this  community  any  longer; 
and  at  the  last  election,  ez  you  all  know,  they 
tried  fur  to  prove  it  by  retirin'  most  of  the  veter 
ans  that  offered  themselves  ez  candidates  fur 
re-election  back  to  private  life. 

"I  ain't  sayin'  they  wasn't  partly  right 
neither;  fur  here  we've  been  sittin'  this  night, 
like  a  passel  of  old  moo-cows,  chewin'  the  cud 
of  things  that  happened  forty-odd  year'  ago, 
and  never  suspicionin'  nothin'  of  what  was  goin' 
on,  whilst  all  round  us  men,  carried  away  by 
passion  and  race  prejudice,  have  been  plottin' 
to  break  the  laws  and  shed  blood  and  bring  an 
[307] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


everlastin'  disgrace  on  the  reppitation  fur  peace 
and  good  order  of  this  fair  little  city  of  ourn. 
But  maybe  it  ain't  too  late  yit  fur  us  to  do  our 
duty  ez  citizens  and  ez  veterans.  Oncet  on  a 
time — a  mighty  long  while  ago — we  turned  out 
to  pertect  our  people  ag'inst  an  armed  invader. 
Let's  show  'em  we  ain't  too  old  or  too  feeble  to 
turn  out  oncet  more  to  pertect  them  ag'inst 
themselves." 

He  reared  back,  and  visibly,  before  their 
eyes,  his  short  fat  figure  seemed  to  lengthen  by 
cubits. 

"I  move  that  Gideon  K.  Irons  Camp  of 
United  Confederate  Veterans,  here  assembled, 
march  in  a  body  right  now  to  save — ef  we  can — 
these  poor  Eyetalians  who  are  strangers  in  a 
strange  and  a  hosstil  land  from  bein'  mistreated, 
and  to  save — ef  we  can — our  misguided  fellow 
townsmen  from  sufferiii'  the  consequences  of 
their  own  folly  and  their  own  foolishness.  Do  I 
hear  a  second  to  that  motion?" 

Did  he  hear  a  second  to  his  motion?  He  heard 
twenty-five  seconds  to  it,  all  heaved  at  him 
together,  with  all  the  blaring  strength  of  twenty- 
five  pairs  of  elderly  lungs.  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby  forgot  parliamentary  usage. 

"Will  we  go?"  whooped  Sergeant  Bagby, 
waving  his  pudgy  arms  aloft  so  that  his  mittened 
hands  described  whizzing  red  circles  in  the  air. 
"You  betcher  sweet  life  we'll  go!  We'll  go 
through  hell  and  high  water — with  you  as  our 
commandin'  officer,  Billy  Priest." 
[308] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

"You  betcher!  That's  the  ticket!"  A  whoop 
of  approval  went  up. 

"Well,  then,  ef  that's  the  way  you  feel  about 
it — come  on!"  their  leader  bade  them;  and  they 
rushed  for  the  door,  sweeping  the  circuit  clerk 
aside.  "No;  wait  jest  a  minute!"  He  singled 
out  the  jostled  Mr.  Milam.  "Lishy,  you've  got 
the  youngest,  spriest  legs  of  anybody  here.  Run 
on  ahead — won't  you? — and  find  Father  Minor. 
He'll  be  at  the  priest  house  back  of  his  church. 
Tell  him  to  jine  up  with  us  as  quick  as  ever  the 
Lord'll  let  him.  We'll  head  down  Harrison 
Street." 

Mr.  Milam  vanished.  With  a  wave  of  his 
arm,  the  judge  comprehended  those  who  re 
mained. 

"Nearly  everybody  here  served  one  time  or 
another  under  old  Nathan  Bedford  Forrest. 
The  rest  would  'a'  liked  to.  I  reckin  this  here  is 
goin'  to  be  the  last  raid  and  the  last  charge  that 
Forrest's  Cavalry,  mounted  or  dismounted,  ever 
will  make!  Let's  do  it  regular — open  up  that 
there  wardrobe-chist  yonder,  some  of  you,  and 
git  what's  inside!" 

Hurried  old  hands  fumbled  at  the  catches  of 
a  weather-beaten  oaken  cabinet  on  the  platform 
and  plucked  forth  the  treasured  possessions  of 
the  Camp — the  dented  bugle;  the  drum;  the 
slender,  shiny,  little  fife;  the  silken  flag,  on  its 
short  polished  staff. 

"Fall  in — by  twos!"  commanded  Judge 

Priest.  "  Forward — march ! " 

[309] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Half  a  minute  later  the  gasjets  that 
lighted  Kamleiter's  Hall  lighted  only  emptiness 
—an  empty  chest  in  a  corner;  empty  chairs, 
some  overturned  on  their  sides,  some  upright 
on  their  legs ;  an  empty  hall  doorway  opening  on 
an  empty  patch  of  darkness;  and  one  of  Judge 
Priest's  flannel-lined  galoshes,  gaping  emptily 
where  it  had  been  forgotten. 

From  the  street  below  rose  a  measured  thud 
of  feet  on  the  hard-packed  snow.  Forrest's  Cav 
alry  was  on  the  march! 

With  bent  backs  straightening  to  the  call 
of  a  high,  strong  impulse;  with  gimpy,  gnarled 
legs  rising  and  falling  in  brisk  unison;  with 
heads  held  high  and  chests  puffed  out;  with 
their  leader  in  front  of  them  and  thei£  flag 
going  before  them — Forrest's  Cavalry  went 
forward.  Once  and  once  only  the  double  line 
stopped  as  it  traversed  the  town,  lying  snug 
and  for  the  most  part  still  under  its  blanketing 
of  snow. 

As  the  little  column  of  old  men  swung  round 
the  first  corner  below  Kamleiter's  Hall,  the  lights 
coming  through  the  windows  of  Tony  Palassi's 
fruit  shop  made  bright  yellow  patches  on  the 
white  path  they  trod. 

"Halt!"  ordered  Judge  Priest  suddenly;  and 
he  quit  his  place  in  the  lead  and  made  for  the 
doorway. 

"If  you're  looking  for  Tony  to  go  along  and 
translate  you're  wasting  time,  Judge,"  sang  out 

Mr.  Crump.    "He's  out  of  town." 

[310] 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

"Is  he?"  said  Judge  Priest.  "Well,  that's 
too  bad!" 

As  though  to  make  sure,  he  peered  in  through 
the  glassed  upper  half  of  the  fruitshop  door. 
Within  might  be  seen  Mrs.  Delia  Callahan  Pa- 
lassi,  wife  of  the  proprietor,  putting  the  place  to 
rights  before  locking  it  up  for  the  night;  and  at 
her  skirts  tagged  Master  Antonio  Wolfe  Tone 
Palassi,  aged  seven,  only  son  and  sole  heir  of  the 
same,  a  round-bellied,  red-cheeked  little  Italian- 
Irish-American.  The  judge  put  his  hand  on  the 
latch  and  jiggled  it. 

"I  tell  you  Tony's  not  there,"  repeated  Mr. 
Crump  impatiently. 

If  the  judge  heard  him  he  paid  no  heed.  He 
went  through  that  door,  leaving  his  command 
outside,  as  one  might  go  who  knew  exactly  what 
he  was  about.  Little  Tony  Wolfe  Tone  recog 
nised  an  old  friend  and  came,  gurgling  a  wel 
come,  to  greet  him.  Most  of  the  children  in 
town  knew  Judge  Priest  intimately,  but  little 
Tony  Wolfe  Tone  was  a  particular  favourite  of 
his;  and  by  the  same  token  he  was  a  particular 
favourite  of  Tony's. 

Whatever  Judge  Priest  said  to  Mrs.  Palassi 
didn't  take  long  for  the  saying  of  it;  yet  it  must 
have  been  an  argument  powerfully  persuading 
and  powerfully  potent.  It  is  possible — mind 
you,  I  don't  make  the  positive  assertion,  but  it 
is  possible — he  reminded  her  that  the  blood  of 
a  race  of  fighting  kings  ran  in  her  veins;  for  in 
less  than  no  time  at  all,  when  Judge  Priest 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


reissued  from  the  fruit  shop,  there  rode  pack- 
fashion  on  his  back  a  little  figure  so  well  bundled 
up  against  the  cold  that  only  a  pair  of  big 
brown  Italian  eyes  and  a  small,  tiptilted  Irish 
nose  showed  themselves,  to  prove  that  Judge 
Priest's  burden  was  not  a  woolly  Teddy-bear, 
but  a  veritable  small  boy.  No ;  I'm  wrong  there. 
One  other  thing  proved  it — a  woman  standing 
in  the  doorway,  wringing  her  apron  in  her  hands, 
her  face  ablaze  with  mother  love  and  mother 
pride  and  mother  fear,  watching  the  hurrying 
procession  as  it  moved  down  the  wintry  street, 
straight  into  the  red  glare  on  ahead. 

The  flimsy  framework  of  resiny  pine  burned 
fast,  considering  that  much  snow  had  lain  on 
the  roof  and  much  snow  had  melted  and  run 
down  the  sides  all  day,  to  freeze  again  with  the 
coming  of  nighttime.  One  end  of  the  barracks 
had  fallen  into  a  muddle  of  black-charred  ruina 
tion.  The  fire  ate  its  way  along  steadily,  purring 
and  crackling  and  spitting  as  its  red  teeth  bit 
into  the  wetted  boards.  Above,  the  whole  sky 
was  aglare  with  its  wavering  red  reflections.  The 
outlines  of  the  bowl-shaped  flat  stood  forth  dis 
tinctly  revealed  in  the  glow  of  that  great  wooden 
brazier,  and  the  snow  that  covered  the  earth 
was  channelled  across  with  red  streaks,  like  spilt 
blood. 

Here,  against  the  nearermost  bank,  the  for 
eigners  were  clumped  in  a  tight,  compact  black 
huddle,  all  scared,  but  not  so  badly  scared  that 
[312] 


FORRESTS     LAST     CHARGE 

they  would  not  fight.  Yonder,  across  the  snow, 
through  the  gap  where  a  side  street  debouched 
at  a  gentle  slope  into  the  hollow,  the  mob  ad 
vanced — men  and  half-grown  boys — to  the 
number  of  perhaps  four  hundred,  coming  to  get 
the  man  who  had  stabbed  Beaver  Yancy  and 
string  him  up  on  the  spot — and  maybe  to  get  a 
few  of  his  friends  and  string  them  up  as  an 
added  warning  to  all  Dagos.  They  came  on  and 
came  on  until  a  space  of  not  more  than  seventy- 
five  yards  separated  the  mob  and  the  mob's 
prospective  victims.  From  the  advancing  mass 
a  growling  of  many  voices  rose.  Rampant, 
unloosed  mischief  was  in  the  sound. 

Somebody  who  was  drunk  yelled  out  shrill 
profanity  and  then  laughed  a  maudlin  laugh. 
The  group  against  the  bank  kept  silent.  Theirs 
was  the  silence  of  a  grim  and  desperate  resolu 
tion.  Their  only  shelter  had  been  fired  over 
their  heads;  they  were  beleaguered  and  ringed 
about  with  enemies;  they  had  nowhere  to  run 
for  safety,  even  had  they  been  minded  to  run. 
So  they  would  fight.  They  made  ready  with 
their  weapons  of  defence — such  weapons  as  they 
had. 

A  man  who  appeared  to  hold  some  manner  of 
leadership  over  the  rest  advanced  a  step  from  the 
front  row  of  them.  In  his  hand  he  held  an  old- 
fashioned  cap-and-ball  pistol  at  full  cock.  He 
raised  his  right  arm  and  sighted  along  the  levelled 
barrel  at  a  spot  midway  between  him  and  the 
oncoming  crowd.  Plainly  he  meant  to  fire  when 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


the  first  of  his  foes  crossed  an  imaginary  line. 
He  squinted  up  his  eye,  taking  a  careful  aim; 
and  he  let  his  trigger  finger  slip  gently  inside  the 
trigger  guard — but  he  never  fired. 

On  top  of  the  hill,  almost  above  his  head,  a 
bugle  blared  out.  A  fife  and  a  drum  cut  in,  play 
ing  something  jiggy  and  brisk;  and  over  the 
crest  and  down  into  the  flat,  two  by  two, 
marched  a  little  column  of  old  men,  following 
after  a  small  silken  flag  which  flicked  and  whis 
pered  in  the  wind,  and  led  by  a  short,  round- 
bodied  commander,  who  held  by  the  hand  a  little 
briskly  trotting  figure  of  a  child.  Tony  Wolfe 
Tone  had  grown  too  heavy  for  the  judge  to 
carry  him  all  the  way. 

Out  across  the  narrow  space  between  the 
closing-in  mob  and  the  closed-in  foreigners  the 
marchers  passed,  their  feet  sinking  ankle-deep 
into  the  crusted  snow.  Their  leader  gave  a 
command;  the  music  broke  off  and  they  spread 
out  in  single  file,  taking  station,  five  feet  apart 
from  one  another,  so  that  between  the  two  hos 
tile  groups  a  living  hedge  was  interposed.  And 
so  they  stood,  with  their  hands  down  at  their 
sides,  some  facing  to  the  west,  where  the  Italians 
were  herded  together,  some  facing  toward  the 
east,  where  the  would-be  lynchers,  stricken  with 
a  great  amazement,  had  come  to  a  dead  stand. 

Judge  Priest,  still  holding  little  Tony  Wolfe 
Tone's  small  mittened  hand  fast  in  his,  spoke  up, 
addressing  the  mob.  His  familiar  figure  was 
outlined  against  the  burning  barracks  beyond 


FORREST'S    LAST    CHARGE 

him  and  behind  him.  His  familiar  whiny  voice 
he  lifted  to  so  high  a  pitch  that  every  man  and 
boy  there  heard  him. 

"Feller  citizens,"  he  stated,  "this  is  part  of 
Forrest's  Cavalry  you  see  here.  We  done  sol- 
dierin'  oncet  and  we've  turned  soldiers  ag'in; 
but  we  ain't  armed — none  of  us.  We've  only 
got  our  bare  hands.  Ef  you  come  on  we  can't 
stop  you  with  guns;  but  we  ain't  agoin'  to  budge, 
and  ef  you  start  shootin'  you'll  shorely  git  some 
of  us.  So  ez  a  personal  favour  to  me  and  these 
other  gentlemen,  I'd  like  to  ast  you  jest  to  stand 
still  where  you  are  and  not  to  shoot  till  after  you 
see  what  we're  fixin'  to  try  to  do.  That's  agree 
able  to  you-all,  ain't  it?  You've  got  the  whole 
night  ahead  of  you — there's  no  hurry,  is  there, 
boys?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  any  answer  from  anyone. 
By  name  he  knew  a  good  half  of  them;  by  sight 
he  knew  the  other  half.  And  they  all  knew  him; 
and  they  knew  Tony  Palassi's  boy;  and  they 
knew  Father  Minor,  who  stood  at  his  right  hand; 
and  they  knew  the  lame  blacksmith  and  the 
little  bench-legged  Jewish  merchant,  and  the 
rich  banker  and  the  poor  carpenter,  and  the 
leading  wholesaler,  and  all  the  other  old  men 
who  stretched  away  from  the  judge  in  an  uneven 
line,  like  fence  posts  for  a  fence  that  had  not 
been  built.  They  would  not  shoot  yet;  and,  as 
though  fully  convinced  in  his  own  mind  they 
would  bide  where  they  were  until  he  was  done, 
and  relying  completely  on  them  to  keep  their 
[315] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


unspoken  promise,  Judge  Priest  half -turned  his 
back  on  the  members  of  the  mob  and  bent  over 
little  Tony. 

"Little  feller,"  he  said,  "y°u  ain't  skeered, 
are  you?" 

Tony  looked  up  at  his  friend  and  shook  his 
head  stoutly.  Tony  was  not  scared.  It  was  as 
good  as  play  to  Tony — all  this  was. 

"That's  my  sandy  little  pardner,"  said  Judge 
Priest;  and  he  put  his  hands  under  Tony's  arms 
and  heaved  the  child  back  up  on  his  shoulders, 
and  swung  himself  about  so  that  he  and  Tony 
faced  the  huddle  of  silent  figures  in  the  shadow  of 
the  bank. 

"You  see  all  them  men  yonder,  don't  you, 
boy?"  he  prompted.  "Well,  now  you  speak  up 
ez  loud  ez  you  can,  and  you  tell  'em  whut 
I've  been  tellin'  you  to  say  all  the  way  down 
the  street  ever  since  we  left  your  mammy. 
You  tell  'em  I'm  the  big  judge  of  the  big  court. 
Tell  'em  there's  one  man  among  'em  who  must 
come  on  and  go  with  me.  He'll  know  and 
they'll  know  which  man  I  mean.  Tell  'em  that 
man  ain't  goin'  to  be  hurt  ef  he  comes  now. 
Tell  'em  that  they  ain't  none  of  'em  goin'  to  be 
hurt  ef  they  all  do  what  I  say.  Tell  'em  Father 
Minor  is  here  to  show  'em  to  a  safe,  warm  place 
where  they  kin  spend  the  night.  Kin  you  re 
member  all  that,  sonny -boy?  Then  tell  'em  in 
Eyetalian — quick  and  loud." 

And  Tony  Wolfe  Tone  told  them.  Unmindful 
of  the  hundreds  of  eyes  that  were  upon  him— 
[316] 


LAST     CHARGE 


even  forgetting  for  a  minute  to  watch  the  fire — 
Tony  opened  wide  his  small  mouth  and  in  the 
tongue  of  his  father's  people,  richened  perhaps 
by  the  sweet  brogue  of  his  mother's  land,  and 
spiced  here  and  there  with  a  word  or  two  of 
savoury  good  American  slang,  he  gave  the  mes 
sage  a  piping  utterance. 

They  hearkened  and  they  understood.  This 
baby,  this  bambino,  speaking  to  them  in  a  poly 
glot  tongue  they,  nevertheless,  could  make  out — 
surely  he  did  not  lie  to  them!  And  the  priest  of 
their  own  faith,  standing  in  the  snow  close  by 
the  child,  would  not  betray  them.  They  knew 
better  than  that.  Perhaps  to  them  the  flag,  the 
drum,  the  fife,  the  bugle,  the  faint  semblance  of 
military  formation  maintained  by  these  volun 
teer  rescuers  who  had  appeared  so  opportunely, 
promising  succour  and  security  and  a  habitation 
for  the  night — perhaps  all  this  symbolised  to  them 
organised  authority  and  organised  protection, 
just  as  Judge  Priest,  in  a  flash  of  inspiration  back 
in  Kamleiter's  Hall,  had  guessed  that  it  might. 

Their  leader,  the  man  who  held  the  pistol, 
advanced  a  pace  or  two  and  called  out  some 
thing;  and  when  Tony  Wolfe  Tone,  from  his 
perch  on  the  old  judge's  shoulders,  had  answered 
back,  the  man,  as  though  satisfied,  turned  and 
might  be  seen  busily  confabbing  with  certain  of 
his  mates  who  clustered  about  him,  gesticu 
lating. 

" Whut  did  he  say,  boy?"  asked  Judge  Priest, 

craning  his  neck  to  look  up. 

[317] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"He  say,  Mister  Judge,  they  wants  to  talk 
it  over,"  replied  Tony,  craning  his  neck  to  look 
down. 

"And  whut  did  you  say  to  him  then?" 
"I  say  to  him:  'Go  to  it,  kiddo!'  ' 
In  the  sheltering  crotch  of  little  Tony's  two 
plump  bestraddling  legs,  which  encircled  his 
neck,  the  old  judge  chuckled  to  himself.  A  wave 
of  laughter  ran  through  the  ranks  of  the  halted 
mob — Tony's  voice  had  carried  so  far  as  that, 
and  Tony's  mode  of  speech  apparently  had  met 
with  favour.  Mob  psychology,  according  to 
some  students,  is  hard  to  fathom;  according  to 
others,  easy. 

From  the  midst  of  the  knot  of  Sicilians 
a  man  stepped  forth — not  the  tall  man  with 
the  gun,  but  a  little  stumpy  man  who  moved 
with  a  limp.  Alone,  he  walked  through  the 
crispened  snow  until  he  came  up  to  where 
the  veterans  stood,  waiting  and  watching. 
The  mob,  all  intently  quiet  once  more,  waited 
and  watched  too. 

With  a  touch  of  the  dramatic  instinct  that 
belongs  to  his  race,  he  flung  down  a  dirk  knife 
at  Judge  Priest's  feet  and  held  out  both  his 
hands  in  token  of  surrender.  To  the  men  who 
came  there  to  take  his  life  he  gave  no  heed — not 
so  much  as  a  sidewise  glance  over  his  shoulder 
did  he  give  them.  He  looked  into  the  judge's 
face  and  into  the  face  of  little  Tony,  and  into 
the  earnest  face  of  the  old  priest  alongside 
these  two. 

I  sis] 


LAST      CHARGE 


"Boys" — the  judge  lifted  Tony  down  and, 
with  a  gesture,  was  invoking  the  attention  of 
his  townsmen—  "boys,  here's  the  man  who  did 
the  knifin'  this  rnornin',  givin'  himself  up  to  my 
pertection — and  yours.  He's  goin'  along  with 
me  now  to  the  county  jail,  to  be  locked  up  ez  a 
prisoner.  I've  passed  my  word  and  the  word  of 
this  whole  town  that  he  shan't  be  teched  nor 
molested  whilst  he's  on  his  way  there,  nor  after 
he  gits  there.  I  know  there  ain't  a  single  one  of 
you  but  stands  ready  to  help  me  keep  that  prom 
ise.  I'm  right,  ain't  I,  boys?" 

"Oh,  hell,  judge — you  win!"  sang  out  a 
member  of  the  mob,  afterward  identified  as  one 
of  Beaver  Yancy's  close  friends,  in  a  humorously 
creditable  imitation  of  the  judge's  own  earnest 
whine.  And  at  that  everybody  laughed  again 
and  somebody  started  a  cheer. 

" I  thought  so,"  replied  the  judge.  "And  now, 
boys,  I've  got  an  idea.  I  reckin,  after  trampin* 
all  the  way  down  here  in  the  snow,  none  of  us 
want  to  tramp  back  home  ag'in  without  doin* 
somethin' — we  don't  feel  like  ez  ef  we  want  to 
waste  the  whole  evenin',  do  we?  See  that  shack 
burnin'  down?  Well,  it's  railroad  property;  and 
we  don't  want  the  railroad  to  suffer.  Let's  put 
her  out — let's  put  her  out  with  snowballs!" 

Illustrating  his  suggestion,  he  stooped, 
scooped  up  a  double  handful  of  snow,  squeezed 
it  into  a  pellet  and  awkwardly  tossed  it  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  blazing  barracks.  It  flew 
wide  of  the  mark  and  fell  short  of  it;  but  his 
[319] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


intention  was  good,  that  being  conceded. 
Whooping  joyously,  four  hundred  men  and  half- 
grown  boys,  or  thereabouts  such  a  number, 
pouched  their  weapons  and  dug  into  the  drifted 
whiteness. 

"Hold  on  a  minute — we'll  do  it  to  soldier 
music!"  shouted  the  judge,  and  he  gave  a  signal. 
The  drum  beat  then ;  and  old  Mr.  Harrison  Treese 
buried  the  fife  in  his  white  whiskers  and  ripped 
loose  on  the  air  the  first  bars  of  Yankee  Doodle. 
The  judge  molded  another  snowball  for  himself. 

"All  set?     Then,  ready!— aim!— fire!" 

Approximately  two  hundred  snowballs  bat 
tered  and  splashed  the  flaming  red  target.  A 
great  sizzling  sound  rose. 

Just  after  this  first  volley  the  only  gun-powder 
shot  of  the  evening  was  fired.  It  came  out  after 
ward  that  as  a  man  named  Ike  Bowers  stooped 
over  to  gather  up  some  snow  his  pistol,  which  he 
had  forgotten  to  uncock,  slipped  out  of  his 
pocket  and  fell  on  a  broken  bit  of  planking. 
There  was  a  darting  needle  of  fire  and  a  smart 
crack.  The  Sicilians  wavered  for  a  minute, 
swaying  back  and  forth,  then  steadied  them 
selves  as  Father  Minor  stepped  in  among  them 
with  his  arms  uplifted;  but  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby  put  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a  puzzled  sort 
of  way,  spun  round,  and  laid  himself  down  full 
length  in  the  snow. 


It  was  nearly  midnight.    The  half -burned  hull 
of  the  barracks  in  the  deserted  bottom  below  the 
[320] 


LAST     CHARGE 


Old  Mjrt  still  smoked  a  little,  but  it  no  longer 
blazecL  Its  late  occupants — all  save  one — slept 
in  the  P.  A.  &  O.  V.  roundhouse,  half  a  mile  away, 
under  police  and  clerical  protection;  this  one 
was  iu  a  cell  in  the  county  jail,  safe  and  sound, 
and  It  is  probable  that  he  slept  also.  That  lin 
guistic  prodigy,  Master  Tony  Wolfe  Tone  Pa- 
lassi>  being  excessively  awearied,  snored  in  soft, 
little-boy  snores  at  his  mother's  side;  and  over 
him  she  cried  tears  of  pride  and  visited  soft 
kisses  on  his  flushed,  upturned  face.  To  the  fam 
ily  of  the  Palassis  much  honour  had  accrued — 
not  forgetting  the  Callahans.  At  eleven  o'clock 
the  local  correspondent  of  the  Courier- Journal 
and  other  city  papers  had  called  up  to  know 
where  he  might  get  copies  of  her  son's  latest 
photograph  for  widespread  publication  abroad. 
The  rest  of  the  town,  generally  speaking,  was 
at  this  late  hour  of  midnight,  also  abed;  but  in 
the  windows  of  Doctor  Lake's  office,  on  the 
second  floor  of  the  Planters'  Bank  building, 
lights  burned,  and  on  the  leather  couch  in 
Doctor  Lake's  inner  room  a  pudgy  figure,  which 
breathed  heavily,  was  stretched  at  full  length, 
its  hands  passively  flat  on  its  breast,  its  head 
done  up  in  many  windings  of  cotton  batting  and 
surgical  bandages.  Above  this  figure  stood  old 
Doctor  Lake,  holding  in  the  open  palm  of  his 
left  hand  a  small,  black,  flattened  object.  The 
door  leading  to  the  outer  office  opened  a  foot  and 
the  woe-begone  face  and  dripping  eyes  of  Judge 
Priest  appeared  through  the  slit. 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


"Get  out!"  snapped  Doctor  Lake  without 
turning  his  head. 

"Lew,  it's  me!"  said  Judge  Priest  in  the 
whisper  that  any  civilised  being  other  than  a 
physician  or  a  trained  nurse  instinctively 
assumes  in  the  presence  of  a  certain  dread  visita 
tion.  "I  jest  natchelly  couldn't  wait  no  longer 
— not  another  minute !  I  wouldn't  'a'  traded  one 
hair  off  of  Jimmy  Bagby's  old  grey  head  fur  all 
the  Beaver  Yancys  that  ever  was  whelped.  Lew, 
is  there  a  chance?" 

"Billy  Priest,"  said  Doctor  Lake  severely, 
"the  main  trouble  with  you  is  that  you're  so 
liable  to  go  off  half-cocked.  Beaver  Yancy's 
not  going  to  die — you  couldn't  kill  him  with  an 
ax.  I  don't  know  how  that  story  got  round 
to-night.  And  Jim  Bagby's  all  right  too,  except 
he's  going  to  have  one  whale  of  a  headache  to 
morrow.  The  bullet  glanced  round  his  skull 
and  stopped  under  the  scalp.  Here  'tis — I  just 
got  it  out.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord!  Now  look  what 
you've  done,  bursting  in  here  and  blubbering  all 
around  the  place!" 

The  swathed  form  on  the  couch  sat  up  and 
cocked  an  eye  out  from  beneath  a  low-drawn 
fold  of  cheesecloth. 

"Is  that  you,  Judge?"  demanded  Sergeant 
Bagby  in  his  usual  voice  and  hi  almost  his  usual 
manner. 

"Yes,  Jimmy;  it's  me." 

Judge  Priest  projected  himself  across  the 
room  toward  his  friend.  He  didn't  run;  he 
[  322  ] 


FORREST     S     LAST     CHARGE 

didn't  jump;  he  didn't  waddle — he  projected 
himself. 

"Yes,  Jimmy,  it's  me." 

"Are  any  of  the  other  boys  out  there  in  the 
other  room?" 

"Yes,  Jimmy;  they're  all  out  there,  waitin'." 

"Well,  quit  snifflin'  and  call  'em  right  in!" 
said  Sergeant  Bagby  crisply.  "I've  been  tryin' 
fur  years  to  git  somebody  to  set  still  long  enough 
fur  me  to  tell  'era  that  there  story  about  Gin'ral 
John  C.  Breckenridge  and  Gin'ral  Simon  Bolivar 
Buckner;  and  it  seems  like  somethin'  always 
comes  up  to  interrupt  me.  This  looks  like  my 
chance  to  finish  it,  fur  oncet.  Call  them  boys 
all  in!" 


[323] 


VIII 

DOUBLE-BARRELLED 
JUSTICE 


ALONG  and  limber  man  leaned  against 
a  doorjamb  of  the  Blue  Jug  Saloon 
and  Short  Order  Restaurant,  inhal 
ing  the  mild  clear  air  of  the  autumnal 
day  and,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  amply  is 
satisfied  by  the  aspect  of  things,  contemplating 
creation  at  large  as  it  revealed  itself  along 
Franklin  Street.  In  such  posture  he  suggested 
more  than  anything  else  a  pair  of  callipers  en 
dowed  with  reason.  For  this,  our  disesteemed 
fellow  citizen  of  the  good  old  days  which  are 
gone,  was  probably  the  shortest-waisted  man 
in  the  known  world.  In  my  time  I  have  seen 
other  men  who  might  be  deemed  to  be  exces 
sively  short  waisted,  but  never  one  to  equal 
in  this  unique  regard  Old  King  Highpockets. 
A  short  span  less  of  torso,  and  a  dime  museum 
would  have  claimed  him,  sure. 

You  would  think  me  a  gross  exaggerator  did 
I  attempt  to  tell  you  how  high  up  his  legs  forked ; 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

suffice  it  to  say  that,  as  to  his  suspenders,  they 
crossed  the  spine  just  below  his  back  collar 
button.  Wherefore,  although  born  a  Magee 
and  baptised  an  Elmer,  it  was  inevitable  in  this 
community  that  from  the  days  of  his  youth 
onward  he  should  have  been  called  what  they 
did  call  him.  To  his  six  feet  five  and  a  half 
inches  of  lank  structural  design  he  owed  the 
more  descriptive  part  of  his  customary  title. 
The  rest  of  it — the  regal-sounding  part  of  it — 
had  been  bestowed  upon  him  in  his  ripened 
maturity  after  he  achieved  for  himself  local 
dominance  in  an  unhallowed  but  a  lucrative 
calling. 

Sitting  down  the  above-named  seemed  a 
person  of  no  more  than  ordinary  height,  thi» 
being  by  reason  of  the  architectural  peculiar 
ities  just  referred  to.  But  standing  up,  as  at 
the  present  moment,  he  reared  head  and  gander 
neck  above  the  run  of  humanity.  From  this 
personal  eminence  he  now  looked  about  him 
and  below  him  as  he  took  the  sun.  There  was 
not  a  cloud  in  the  general  sky;  none  in  his 
private  and  individual  sky  either.  He  had 
done  well  the  night  before  and  likewise  the 
night  before  that;  he  expected  to  do  as  well  or 
better  the  coming  night.  Upstairs  over  the 
Blue  Jug  King  Highpockets  took  in  gambling 
— both  plain  and  fancy  gambling. 

There  passed  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  one  Beck  Giltner.  With  him  the  tall 
man  in  the  doorway  exchanged  a  distant  and 
[  325  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


formal  greeting  expressed  in  short  nods.  Be 
tween  these  two  no  great  amount  of  friendliness 
was  lost.  Professionally  speaking  they  were 
opponents.  Beck  Giltner  was  by  way  of  being 
in  the  card  and  dicing  line  himself,  but  he  was 
known  as  a  square  gambler,  meaning  by  that, 
to  most  of  mankind  he  presented  a  plane  sur 
face  of  ostensible  honesty  and  fair  dealing, 
whereas  within  an  initiated  circle  rumour  had 
it  that  his  rival  of  the  Blue  Jug  was  so  crooked 
he  threw  a  shadow  like  a  brace  and  bit.  Beck 
Giltner  made  it  a  rule  of  business  to  strip  only 
those  who  could  afford  to  lose  their  pecuniary 
peltries.  Minors,  drunkards,  half-wits  and 
chronic  losers  were  barred  from  his  tables.  But 
all  was  fish — I  use  the  word  advisedly — all  was 
fish  that  came  to  the  net  of  Highpockets. 

Beck  Giltner  passed  upon  his  business.  So 
did  other  and  more  reputable  members  of 
society.  A  short  straggling  procession  of  gen 
tlemen  went  by,  all  headed  westward,  and  each 
followed  at  a  suitable  interval  by  his  negro 
"boy,"  who  might  be  anywhere  between  seven 
teen  and  seventy  years  of  age.  An  hour  or  two 
later  these  travellers  would  return,  bound  for 
their  offices  downtown.  Going  back  they  would 
mainly  travel  in  pairs,  and  their  trailing  black 
servitors  would  be  burdened,  front  and  back, 
with  "samples" — sheafs  of  tobacco  bound 
together  and  sealed  with  blobs  of  red  sealing 
wax  and  tagged.  For  this  was  in  the  time 
before  the  Trust  and  the  Night  Riders  had  be- 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

tween  them  disrupted  the  trade  down  in  the 
historic  Black  Patch,  and  the  mode  of  market 
ing  the  weed  by  loose  leaf  was  a  thing  as  yet 
undreamed  of.  They  would  be  prizing  on  the 
breaks  in  Key  &  Buckner's  long  warehouse 
pretty  soon.  The  official  auctioneer  had  al 
ready  reported  himself,  and  to  the  ear  for  blocks 
round  came  distantly  a  sharp  rifle-fire  clatter 
as  the  warehouse  hands  knocked  the  hoops  off 
the  big  hogsheads  and  the  freed  staves  rattled 
down  in  windrows  upon  the  uneven  floor, 

A  locomotive  whistled  at  the  crossing  two 
squares  up  the  street,  and  the  King  smiled  a 
little  smile  and  rasped  a  lean  and  avaricious 
chin  with  a  fabulously  bony  hand.  He  opined 
that  locomotive  would  be  drawing  the  monthly 
pay  car  which  was  due.  The  coming  of  the 
pay  car  meant  many  sportive  railroad  men — 
shopmen,  yardmen,  trainmen — abroad  that 
evening  with  the  good  new  money  burning  holes 
in  the  linings  of  their  pockets. 

Close  by  him,  just  behind  him,  a  voice  spoke 
his  name — his  proper  name  which  he  seldom 
heard — and  the  sound  of  it  rubbed  the  smile 
off  his  face  and  turned  it  on  the  instant  into 
a  grim,  long  war-mask  of  a  face. 

"Mister  Magee — Elmer — just  a  minute, 
please!" 

Without  shifting  his  body  he  turned  his  head 

and  over  the  peak  of  one  shoulder  he  regarded 

her  dourly.     She  was  a  small  woman  and  she 

was  verging  on  middle  age,  and  she  was  an  ex- 

[327] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


ceedingly  shabby  little  woman.  Whatever  of 
comeliness  she  might  ever  have  had  was  now 
and  forever  gone  from  her.  Hard  years  and 
the  strain  of  them  had  ground  the  colour  in 
and  rubbed  the  plumpness  out  of  her  face, 
leaving  in  payment  therefor  deep  lines  and  a 
loose  skin-sac  under  the  chin  and  hollows  in  the 
cheeks.  The  shapeless,  sleazy  black  garments 
that  she  wore  effectually  concealed  any  remnant 
of  grace  that  might  yet  abide  in  her  body. 
Only  her  eyes  testified  she  had  ever  been  any 
thing  except  a  forlorn  and  drooping  slattern. 
They  were  big  bright  black  eyes. 

This  briefly  was  the  aspect  of  the  woman  who 
stood  alongside  him,  speaking  his  name.  She 
had  come  up  so  quietly  that  he  never  heard  her. 
But  then  her  shoes  were  old  and  worn  and  had 
lasted  long  past  the  age  when  shoes  will  squeak. 

He  made  no  move  to  raise  his  hat.  Slant 
wise  across  the  high  ridge  of  his  twisted  shoul 
der  he  looked  at  her  long  and  contemptuously. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "back  ag'in,  huh? 
Well,  whut  is  it  now,  huh?" 

She  put  up  a  little  work-gnarled  hand  to  a 
tight  skew  of  brown  hair  streaked  thickly  with 
grey.  In  the  gesture  was  something  essen 
tially  feminine — something  pathetic  too. 

"I  reckon  you  know  already  what  it  is, 
Elmer,"  she  said.  "It's  about  my  boy — it's 
about  Eddie." 

"I  told  you  before  and  I  tell  you  ag'in  I 
ain't  your  boy's  guardeen,"  he  answered  her. 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

"How   comes   you   keep    on   pesterin'    me — I 
ain't  got  that  boy  of  yourn?" 

"Yes,  you  have  got  him,"  she  said,  her  voice 
shaking  and  threatening  to  break.  "You've 
got  him  body  and  soul.  And  I  want  him — me, 
his  mother.  I  want  you  to  give  him  back  to 


me." 


His  gaze  lifted  until  he  considered  empty 
space  a  foot  above  her  head.  Slowly  he  reached 
an  angular  arm  back  under  his  right  shoulder 
blade  and  fished  about  there  until  he  had  ex 
tracted  from  a  hip  pocket  a  long,  black  rectangle 
of  navy  chewing  tobacco  that  was  like  a  shingle 
newly  dipped  in  creosote.  It  was  a  virgin  plug 
— he  bought  a  fresh  one  every  morning  and  by 
night  would  make  a  ragged  remnant  of  it.  With 
the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  has  plenty  of 
time  to  spare,  he  set  his  stained  front  teeth  in  a 
corner  of  it  and  gnawed  off  a  big  scallop  of  the 
rank  stuff.  His  tongue  herded  it  back  into  his 
jaw,  where  it  made  a  lump.  He  put  the  plug 
away.  She  stood  silently  through  this,  knead 
ing  her  hands  together,  a  most  humble  suppliant 
awaiting  this  monarch's  pleasure. 

"You  told  me  all  that  there  foolishness  the 
other  time,"  he  said.  "Ain't  you  got  no  new 
song  to  sing  this  time?  Ef  you  have  I'll  listen, 
mebbe.  Ef  you  ain't  I'll  tell  you  good-by." 

"Elmer,"  she  said,  "what  kind  of  a  man  are 

you?    Haven't  you  got  any  compassions  at  all? 

Why,  Elmer,  your  pa  and  my  pa  were  soldiers 

together  in  the  same  regiment.     You  and  me 

[329] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


were  raised  together  right  here  in  this  town. 
We  went  to  the  same  schoolhouse  together  as 
children — don't  you  remember?  You  weren't 
a  mean  boy  then.  Why,  I  used  to  think  you 
was  right  good-hearted.  For  the  sake  of  those 
old  days  won't  you  do  something  about  Eddie? 
It's  wrong  and  it's  sinful — what  you're  doing 
to  him  and  the  rest  of  the  young  boys  in  this 
town." 

"Ef  you  think  that  why  come  to  me?"  he 
demanded.  "Why  not  go  to  the  police  with 
your  troubles?"  He  split  his  lips  back,  and  a 
double  row  of  discoloured  snags  that  projected 
from  the  gums  like  little  chisels  showed  between 
them. 

"And  have  'em  laugh  in  my  face,  same  as 
you're  doing  now?  Have  'em  tell  me  to  go  and 
get  the  evidence?  Oh,  I  know  you're  safe 
enough  there.  I  reckon  you  know  who  your 
friends  are.  You  shut  up  when  the  Grand 
Jury  meets;  and  once  in  a  while  when  things 
get  hot  for  you,  like  they  did  when  that  Law 
and  Order  League  was  so  busy,  you  close  up 
your  place;  and  once  in  a  while  you  go  up  to 
court  and  pay  a  fine  and  then  you  keep  right 
on.  But  it's  not  you  that's  paying  the  fine — 
I  know  that  mighty  good  and  well.  The  money 
to  pay  it  comes  out  of  the  pockets  of  poor 
women  in  this  town — wives  and  mothers  and 
sisters. 

"Oh,  there's  others  besides  me  that  are  suf 
fering  this  minute.  There's  that  poor,  little, 
[330] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

broken-hearted  Mrs.  Shetler,  out  there  on 
Wheelis  Street — the  one  whose  husband  had 
to  run  away  because  he  fell  short  in  his  accounts 
with  the  brickyard.  And  there's  that  poor, 
old  Mrs.  Postelwaite,  that's  about  to  lose  the 
home  that  she's  worked  her  fingers  to  the  bone, 
mighty  near,  to  help  pay  for,  and  she'll  be  left 
without  a  roof  over  her  head  in  her  old  age 
because  her  husband's  went  and  lost  every  cent 
he  can  get  his  hands  on  playing  cards  in  your 
place,  and  so  now  they  can't  meet  their  mort 
gage  payments.  And  there's  plenty  of  others 
if  the  truth  was  only  known.  And  oh,  there's 
me  and  my  boy — the  only  boy  I've  got.  Elmer 
Magee,  how  you  can  sleep  nights  I  don't  see!" 

"I  don't,"  he  said.  "I  work  nights."  His 
wit  appealed  to  him,  for  he  grinned  again. 
"Say,  listen  here!"  His  mood  had  changed  and 
he  spat  the  next  words  out.  "Ef  you  think  I 
ain't  good  company  for  that  son  of  yourn,  why 
don't  you  make  him  stay  away  from  me?  I 
ain't  hankerin'  none  fur  his  society." 

"I've  tried  to,  Elmer — God  knows  I've  tried 
to,  time  and  time  again.  That's  why  I've 
come  back  to  you  once  more  to  ask  you  if  you 
won't  help  me.  I've  gone  down  on  my  knees 
alone  and  prayed  for  help  and  I've  prayed  with 
Eddie,  too,  and  I've  pleaded  with  him.  He 
don't  run  round  town  carousing  like  some  boys 
his  age  do.  He  don't  drink  and  he's  not  wild, 
except  it  just  seems  like  he  can't  leave  gambling 
alone.  Oh,  he's  promised  me  and  promised 
[  331  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


me  he'd  quit,  but  he's  weak — and  he's  only  a 
boy.  I've  kept  track  of  his  losings  as  well  as 
I  could,  and  I  know  that  first  and  last  he's  lost 
nearly  two  hundred  dollars  playing  cards  with 
you  and  your  crowd.  That  may  not  be  much 
to  you,  Elmer — I  reckon  you're  rich — but  it's 
a  lot  to  a  lone  woman  like  me.  It  means  bread 
and  meat  and  house  rent  and  clothes  to  go  on 
my  back — that's  what  it  means  to  me.  My  feet 
are  mighty  near  out  of  these  shoes  I've  got  on, 
and  right  this  minute  there's  not  a  cent  in  the 
house.  I  don't  say  you  cheated  him,  but  the 
money's  gone  and  you  got  it.  And  it's  ruining 
my  boy.  He's  only  a  boy — he  won't  be  twenty- 
one  till  the  twelfth  day  of  next  April.  If  only 
you  wouldn't  let  him  come  inside  your  place 
he'd  behave  himself — I  know  he  would. 

"So  you  see,  Elmer,  you're  the  only  one  that 
can  make  him  go  straight — that's  why  I've 
come  back  to  you  this  second  time.  I  reckon 
he  ain't  so  much  to  blame.  You  know — yes, 
you've  got  reason  to  know  better  than  anybody 
else — that  his  father  before  him  couldn't  leave 
playing  cards  alone.  I  hoped  I  could  raise 
Eddie  different.  As  a  little  thing  I  used  to  tell 
him  playing  cards  were  the  devil's  own  play 
things.  But  it  seems  like  he  can't  just  help 
it.  I  reckon  it's  in  his  blood." 

"Whut  you  need  then  is  a  blood  purifier," 
mocked  the  gamester.  He  pointed  a  long  fore 
finger  toward  the  drug  store  across  the  street. 
"You'd  better  go  on  over  yonder  to  Hinkle's 
[332] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED      JUSTICE 

and  git  him  some.  I  see  they're  advertisin'  a 
new  brand  in  their  window — a  dollar  a  bottle 
and  a  cure  guaranteed  or  else  you  gits  your 
money  back.  Better  invest!" 

He  showed  her  his  back  as  he  turned  to  enter 
the  Blue  Jug.  Pausing  halfway  through  the 
swinging  doors  he  spoke  again,  and  since  he 
still  looked  over  her  head  perhaps  he  did  not  see 
the  look  that  had  come  into  her  eyes  or  mark 
how  her  hands  were  clenching  and  unclenching. 
Or  if  he  did  see  these  things  perhaps  he  did  not 
care. 

"That's  all  I've  got  to  say  to  you,"  he  added, 
"exceptin'  this — I  want  this  here  to  be  the  last 
time  you  come  pesterin'  me  on  the  street." 

"It  will  be,"  she  said  slowly,  and  her  voice 
was  steady  although  her  meagre  frame  shook. 
"It's  the  last  time  I'm  coming  to  you  on  the 
street,  Elmer,  for  what's  mine  by  rights." 

"Then  good-day  to  you."  He  disappeared. 

She  turned  and  went  away,  walking  fast. 
Her  name  was  Norfleet  and  she  was  a  widow 
and  alone  in  the  world.  Except  for  her  son, 
who  worked  at  Kattersmith  Brothers'  brick 
yards  as  a  helper  for  twelve  dollars  and  a  half  a 
week,  she  had  no  kith  or  kin.  She  lived  mainly 
by  her  needle,  being  a  seamstress  of  sorts. 

King   Highpockets'    establishment   was   the 

nearest  approach  to  a  gilded  gambling  hell — 

to  quote  a  phrase  current — that  we  had.     But 

certainly  it  was  not  gilded,  although  possibly 

[  333] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


by  some  it  might  have  been  likened  to  a  hell. 
Under  the  friendly  cover  of  darkness  you  as 
cended  a  steep  flight  of  creaky  wooden  steps 
and  when  you  had  reached  the  first  landing  you 
knocked  at  a  locked  wooden  door.  The  lock 
slid  back  and  the  door  opened  a  cautious  inch 
or  two  and  a  little  grinning  negro,  whose  name 
was  Babe  Givens,  peeped  out  at  you  through 
the  opening.  If  you  were  the  right  person,  or 
if  you  looked  as  though  you  might  be  the  right 
person,  Babe  Givens  opened  the  door  wider 
and  made  way  for  you  to  enter. 

Entering  then,  you  found  yourself  in  a  big 
room  furnished  most  simply  with  two  tables 
and  some  chairs  and  several  spittoons  upon  the 
floor,  and  a  portable  rack  for  poker  checks  and 
a  dumbwaiter  in  a  corner — and  that  was  all. 
There  was  no  safe,  the  proprietor  deeming  it 
the  part  of  safety  to  carry  his  cash  capital  on 
his  person.  There  was  no  white-uniformed 
attendant  to  bring  you  wine,  should  you  thirst, 
and  turkey  sandwiches,  if  you  hungered  while  at 
play.  I  have  read  that  such  as  these  are  pro 
vided  in  all  properly  conducted  gambling  hells 
in  the  great  city,  but  King  Highpockets  ran  a 
sure-thing  shop,  not  a  restaurant.  Drinks, 
when  desired,  were  paid  for  in  advance,  and 
came  from  the  bar  below  on  the  shelf  of  the 
creaking  dumbwaiter,  after  Babe  Givens  had 
called  the  order  down  a  tin  speaking  tube. 
There  were  no  rugs  upon  the  floor,  no  pictures 
against  the  walls.  Except  for  the  decks  of 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

cards,  opened  fresh  at  each  sitting,  there  was 
nothing  new  or  bright  about  the  place.  The 
King  might  move  his  entire  outfit  in  one  two- 
horse  wagon  and  put  no  great  strain  upon  the 
team.  He  might  lose  it  altogether  and  be  out 
of  pocket  not  more  than  seventy-five  dollars. 
In  him  the  utilitarian  triumphed  above  the 
purely  artistic;  himself,  he  was  not  pretty  to 
look  upon. 

Of  the  two  tables,  one  ordinarily  was  for 
poker  and  the  other  was  for  craps.  The  King 
banked  both  games,  and  sometimes  took  a 
hand  in  the  poker  game  if  conditions  seemed 
propitious.  Whether  he  played  though  or 
whether  he  didn't,  he  stood  by  always  to  lift 
a  white  chip  out  of  each  jackpot  for  a  greedy 
and  omnivorous  kitty,  whose  mouth  showed  as 
a  brassbound  slot  in  the  middle  of  the  circular 
cover  of  dirty  green  baize.  Trust  him  to  min 
ister  to  his  kitty  every  pop.  She  was  his  pet  and 
he  loved  her,  and  he  never  forgot  her  and  her 
needs. 

This  night,  though,  the  poker  table  lacked 
for  tenants.  The  pay  car  had  come  and  had 
dispensed  of  its  delectable  contents  and  had 
gone  on  south,  and  on  this  particular  night  most 
of  the  King's  guests  were  railroad  men.  Rail 
road  men  being  proverbially  fond  of  quick 
action  and  plenty  of  it,  the  crap  table  had  been 
drawn  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
here  all  activities  centred.  Here,  too,  the  King 
presided,  making  change  as  occasion  demanded 
[  335  ] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


from  a  mound  of  specie  and  a  sheaf  of  currency 
in  front  of  him — for  all  transactions  were  cash 
transactions  and  no  chips  used.  While  he  did 
this  his  assistant,  an  alert  individual  called 
Grimes — or  Jay  Bird  Grimes,  for  short — kept 
track  of  the  swift-travelling  dice  and  of  the 
betting,  which  like  the  dice  moved  from  left 
to  right,  round  and  round  and  round  again. 

Jay  Bird  had  need  to  keep  both  his  eyes  wide 
open,  for  present  players  and  prospective 
players  were  ringed  four  deep  about  the  table. 
The  smoke  of  their  cigars  and  their  cigarettes 
went  upward  to  add  stratified  richness  to  the 
thick  blue  clouds  that  crawled  in  layers  against 
the  ceiling,  and  the  sweat  of  their  brows  ran 
down  their  faces  to  drip  in  drops  upon  the  table 
as  one  after  another  they  claimed  the  dotted 
cubes  and  shook,  rattled  and  rolled  'em,  and 
snapped  their  finger  in  importunity,  calling 
upon  Big  Dick  or  Phcebe  Dice  to  come  and  to 
come  right  away.  And  then  this  one  would 
fail  to  make  his  point  and  would  lose  his  turn, 
and  the  overworked  ivories  would  go  into  the 
snatching  eager  hand  of  that  one  who  stood 
next  him,  and  all  the  rest,  waiting  for  their 
chance,  would  breathe  hard,  grunting  in  fancied 
imitation  of  negroes,  and  shouting  out  in  a  semi- 
hysterical  fashion  as  the  player  passed  or  didn't 
pass. 

A  young  freight  conductor  laid  down  a  ten- 
dollar  bill  and  the  King  covered  it  with  another. 
The  freight  conductor  ran  that  ten  up  to  one 
[336] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  ten  or  twenty  at  a 
clip,  then  shot  the  whole  amount  and  lost  it; 
then  lost  ninety  more  on  top  of  that,  and  with 
a  white  face  and  a  quite  empty  pay  envelope, 
still  held  fast  in  a  shaking  left  hand,  fell  back 
out  of  the  hunched-in,  scrouging  circle.  But  he 
didn't  go  away;  he  stayed  to  watch  the  others, 
envious  of  those  who  temporarily  beat  the  game, 
dismally  sympathetic,  with  an  unspoken  fel 
low  feeling,  for  those  who,  like  him,  went  broke. 
Josh  Herron,  the  roundhouse  foreman,  dropped 
half  his  month's  wages  before  he  decided  that, 
since  luck  plainly  was  not  with  him,  he  had  had 
about  enough.  A  clerk  from  the  timekeeper's 
office  shoved  in,  taking  his  place. 

When  he  wasn't  answering  knocks  at  the 
door  Babe  Givens  circulated  about  the  out 
skirts  of  the  tightened  group  like  a  small,  black 
rabbit  dog  about  a  brush  pile  harbouring  hares, 
his  eyes  all  china  and  his  mouth  all  ivory.  The 
sound  of  those  small  squared  bones  clashing 
together  in  their  worn  leather  cup  was  music 
to  his  Afric  ears.  The  white  man  in  the  first 
place  stole  this  game  from  Babe's  race,  you  know. 

Babe  had  to  answer  knocks  a  good  many 
times.  Newcomers  kept  on  climbing  the  stair 
and  knuckling  the  door. 

"Game's  mighty  full,  genelmens — but  they's 
always  room  fur  one  mo'.  Step  right  in  and 
wait  yo'  turn,"  Babe  would  say,  ushering  in  the 
latest  arrival.  Babe  was  almost  as  happy  as 
if  he  had  been  shooting  himself. 
[337] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


As  I  say,  they  kept  coming.  At  length,  a 
few  minutes  before  midnight,  when  the  pile  of 
silver  under  the  King's  hands  had  grown  from 
a  molehill  to  a  mountain  and  the  wadded  paper 
money  made  a  small  shock  of  yellow-and-green 
fodder  upon  the  green  pasture  of  the  table-top, 
came  still  another,  and  this  one  most  strangely 
burdened.  Very  mousily  indeed  this  eleventh- 
hour  visitor  ascended  the  steps,  and  first  trying 
the  doorknob,  knocked  with  a  fumbling  knock 
against  the  pine  panels. 

Babe  drew  back  the  bolt  and  peered  out  into 
the  darkness  at  the  solitary  figure  dimly  seen. 

"Game's  mighty  full,  genelmen,"  he  began 
the  formula  of  greeting,  "but  you  kin 

Babe  began  it  but  he  never  finished  it.  Some 
thing  long  and  black,  something  slim  and  fear 
some — yes,  most  fearsome '-slid  through  the 
opening,  and  grazed  his  nose  so  that  the  little 
darky,  stricken  limp,  fell  back. 

"Please,  suh,  boss,"  he  begged,  "fur  Gawd's 
sake  don't  shoot — don't  shoot!" 

Babe  started  his  prayer  in  a  babble  but  he 
ended  it  with  a  shriek — a  shriek  so  imploringly 
loud  that  all  there,  however  intent  they  might 
be,  were  bound  to  hear  and  take  notice.  Over 
the  heads  of  his  patrons  Highpockets  looked, 
and  he  stiffened  where  he  stood.  They  all 
looked;  they  all  stiffened. 

There  was  just  cause.  Inside  the  door  open 
ing  was  a  masked  figure  levelling  down  a  double- 
barrelled  shotgun  upon  them.  Lacking  the 
[338] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

mask  and  the  shotgun,  and  lacking,  too,  a 
certain  rigid  and  purposeful  pose  which  was 
most  clearly  defined  in  all  its  lines,  the  figure 
would  have  lacked  all  menace,  indeed  would 
have  seemed  to  the  casual  eye  a  most  impotent 
and  grotesque  figure.  For  it  was  but  little 
better  than  five  feet  in  stature  and  not  overly 
broad.  It  wore  garments  too  loose  for  it  by 
many  inches.  The  sleeve  ends  covered  the 
small  hands  to  the  finger  ends,  and  the  trousers 
wrinkled,  accordion  fashion,  to  the  tips  of  the 
absurdly  small  toes.  An  old  slouch  hat  threat 
ened  to  slip  all  the  way  down  over  the  wearer's 
face.  The  mask  was  a  flimsy  thing  of  black 
cambric,  but  the  eyeholes,  strange  to  say,  were 
neatly  worked  with  buttonhole  stitching.  From 
beneath  the  hatbrim  at  the  back  a  hank  of 
longish  hair  escaped.  On  the  floor,  a  yard  or 
so  before  the  apparition  where  it  had  been 
dropped,  rested  an  ancient  black  handbag  un 
latched  and  agape. 

I  am  not  meaning  to  claim  that  at  the  first 
instant  of  looking  the  several  astonished  eyes 
of  the  gathering  in  "King  Highpockets'  place 
comprehended  all  these  details;  it  was  the 
general  effect  that  they  got;  and  it  was  that 
shotgun  which  mainly  made  the  difference  in 
their  point  of  view.  What  they  did  note  most 
clearly — every  man  of  them — was  that  the  two 
hammers  of  the  gun  stood  erect,  ready  to  drop, 
and  that  a  slim  trigger  finger  played  nervously 
inside  the  trigger  guard,  and  that  the  twin 
[339] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


muzzles,  shifting  and  wavering  like  a  pair  of 
round  hard  eyes  gazing  every  way  at  once, 
seemed  to  fix  a  threatening  stare  upon  all  of 
them  and  upon  each  of  them.  If  the  heavy 
gun  shook  a  bit  in  the  grip  of  its  holder  that 
but  added  to  the  common  peril.  Anyone  there 
would  have  taken  his  dying  oath  that  the  thing 
aimed  for  his  shrinking  vitals  and  none  other's. 

"Hands  up — up  high!    And  keep  'em  up!" 

The  command,  given  in  a  high-pitched  key, 
was  practically  unnecessary.  Automatically,  as 
it  were,  all  arms  there  had  risen  to  full  stretch, 
so  that  the  clump  of  their  motionless  bodies 
was  fronded  at  the  top  with  open  palms  and 
tremulous  outstretched  fingers.  But  the  arms 
of  old  King  Highpockets  rose  above  all  the  rest 
and  his  fingers  shook  the  shakiest. 

"If  anybody  moves  an  inch  I'll  shoot." 

"That  don't  go  for  me — I  ain't  aimin'  to 
move,"  murmured  Josh  Herron.  Josh  was 
scared  all  right,  but  he  chuckled  as  he  said  it. 

"  Now — boy — you !" 

The  gun  barrels  dipped  to  the  right  an  instant, 
including  the  detached  form  of  Babe  Givens 
in  their  swing. 

"Yas,  suh,  boss,  yas!" 

"You  put  all  that  money  in  this  grip  sack 
here  at  my  feet." 

"W-w-which  money,  boss?" 

"All  the  money  that's  there  on  that  table 
yonder — every  cent  of  it." 

The  little  darky  feared  the  man  who  paid 
[340] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

him  his  wages,  but  there  were  things  in  this 
world  he  feared  more — masked  faces  and  shot 
guns,  for  example.  His  knees  smote  together 
and  his  teeth  became  as  castanets  which  played 
in  his  jaws,  as  with  rolling  eyes  and  a  skin  like 
wet  ashes  he  moved  shudderingly  to  obey. 
Between  the  table  and  the  valise  he  made  two 
round  trips,  carrying  the  first  time  silver,  the 
second  time  paper,  and  then,  his  task  accom 
plished,  he  collapsed  against  the  wall  because 
his  legs  would  110  longer  hold  him  up.  For  there 
was  water  in  his  knee  joints  and  his  feet  were 
very  cold. 

Through  this  nobody  spoke;  only  the  eyes 
of  the  armed  one  watched  vigilantly  every 
where  and  the  shotgun  ranged  the  assemblage 
across  its  front  and  back  again.  Under  his 
breath  some  one  made  moan,  as  the  heaping 
double  handful  of  green-and-yellow  stuff  was 
crumpled  down  into  the  open-mawed  bag.  It 
might  have  been  Highpockets  who  moaned. 

"Now  then,"  bade  the  robber,  when  the 
paper  had  gone  to  join  the  silver,  "anybody 
here  who's  lost  his  money  to-night  or  any  other 
night  can  come  and  get  it  back.  But  come 
one  at  a  time — and  come  mighty  slow  and 
careful." 

Curiously  enough  only  two  came — the  young 
freight  conductor  and  the  youth  who  was  a 
clerk  in  the  time-keeper's  office  at  the  yards. 

Shamefacedly  the  freight  conductor  stooped, 
flinching  away  from  the  gun  muzzles  which 
[341] 


OLD     J  U  D  GE     PRIEST 


pointed  almost  in  his  right  ear,  and  picked  out 
certain  bills. 

"I  lost  an  even  hundred — more'n  I  can  afford 
to  lose,"  he  mumbled.  "I'm  takin'  just  my 
own  hundred."  He  retired  rearward  after  the 
manner  of  a  crab. 

The  boy  wore  an  apologetic  air  as  he  salvaged 
twenty-two  dollars  from  the  cache.  After  he 
had  crawfished  back  to  the  table  where  the 
others  were,  none  else  offered  to  stir. 

"Anybody  else?"  inquired  the  collector  of  loot. 

"Well,  I  squandered  a  little  coin  here  this 
evenin',  but  I'm  satisfied,"  spoke  Josh  Herron, 
now  grinning  openly.  "I'm  gittin'  my  money's 
worth."  He  glanced  side  wise  toward  the  suf 
fering  proprietor. 

"All  done?" 

Nobody  answered. 

"Here,  boy,  come  here  then!" 

Babe  Givens  came — upon  his  knees. 

"Close  that  bag." 

Babe  fumbled  the  rusted  claps  shut. 

"Now,  shove  it  up  close  to  me  along  the 
floor." 

Babe,  he  shoved  it. 

"Now  get  back  yonder  where  you  were." 

I  leave  it  to  you  whether  Babe  got  back  yonder. 

The  figure  swooped  downward  briskly,  and 
two  fingers  of  the  hand  which  gripped  the  fore 
arm  of  the  gun  caught  in  the  looped  handles 
of  the  black  bag  and  brought  it  up  dangling 
and  heavy  laden. 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

And  now  the  custodian  of  these  delectable 
spoils  was  backing  toward  the  door,  but  still 
with  weapon  poised  and  ready. 

"Stay  right  where  you  are  for  five  minutes," 
was  the  final  warning  from  behind  the  cambric 
mask.  "Five  minutes,  remember!  Anybody 
who  tries  to  come  down  those  steps  before  that 
five  minutes  is  up  is  going  to  get  shot." 

The  door  slammed.  Through  the  closed 
door  the  crap-shooters,  each  in  his  place  and 
all  listening  as  intently  as  devout  worshippers 
in  a  church,  heard  the  swift  footsteps  dying 
away.  Josh  Herron  brought  down  his  arms  and 
took  two  steps  forward. 

"Wait,  Josh,  the  time  limit  ain't  up  yit," 
counselled  a  well-wisher. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  goin'  nowheres  jest  yit — I'm 
very  comfortable  here,"  said  Josh.  He  stooped 
and  seemed  to  pick  up  some  small  object  from 
the  bare  planks. 

Five  minutes  later — or  perhaps  six — a  pro 
cession  moving  cautiously,  silently  and  in  single 
file  passed  down  the  creaky  stairs.  It  was 
noted — and  commented  upon — that  the  owner 
of  the  raided  place,  heaviest  loser  and  chief 
mourner  though  he  was,  tagged  away  back  at 
the  tail  of  the  line.  Only  Babe  Givens  was 
behind  him,  and  Babe  was  well  behind  him  too. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  frontmost  man 
projected  his  head  forth  into  the  night,  an  inch 
at  a  time,  ready  to  jerk  it  back  again.  But  to 
his  inquiring  vision  Franklin  Street  under  its 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


gas  lamps  yawned  as  empty  as  a  new  made 
grave. 

For  some  unuttered  and  indefinable  reason 
practically  all  of  the  present  company  felt  in  a 
mood  promptly  to  betake  themselves  home. 
On  his  homeward  way  Josh  Herron  travelled 
in  the  company  of  a  sorely  shaken  grocery 
clerk,  and  between  them  they,  going  up  the 
street,  discussed  the  startling  episode  in  which 
they  had  just  figured. 

"Lookin'  down  that  pair  of  barrels  certainly 
made  a  true  believer  out  of  old  Highpockets, 
didn't  it?"  said  the  grocer's  clerk,  when  the 
event  had  been  gone  over  verbally  from  its 
beginning  to  its  end.  "Did  you  happen  to  see, 
Josh,  how  slow  he  poked  his  old  head  out  past 
them  door  jambs  even  after  Jasper  Waller  told 
him  the  coast  was  clear?  Put  me  in  mind  of  one 
of  these  here  old  snappin'-turtles  comin'  out 
of  his  shell  after  a  skeer.  Well,  I  had  a 
little  touch  of  the  buck-ager  myself,"  he 
confessed. 

"It  was  sorter  up  to  our  long-laiged  friend 
to  be  a  little  bit  careful,"  said  Josh  Herron. 
"Coupled  up  the  way  he  is,  one  buckshot  would 
be  liable  to  go  through  his  gizzard  and  his  lights 
at  the  same  time." 

A  little  later  the  grocery  clerk  spoke,  in  ref 
erence  to  a  certain  quite  natural  curiosity  which 
seemingly  lay  at  the  top  of  his  thoughts,  since 
he  had  voiced  it  at  least  three  times  within  the 
short  space  of  one  city  block: 
[  344  ] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

"I  wonder  who  that  there  runty  hold-up 
could  'a'  been?" 

"Yes,  I  wonder?"  repeated  Josh  Herron  in  a 
peculiar  voice. 

"He  certainly  took  a  long  chance,  whoever 
he  was — doin'  the  whole  job  single  handed," 
continued  the  grocery  clerk.  "Well,  I  ain't 
begrudgin'  him  the  eight  dollars  of  mine  that 
he  packed  off  with  him,  seein'  as  how  he  stripped 
old  Highpockets  as  clean  as  a  whistle.  And  he 
couldn't  'a'  been  nothin'  but  a  half-grown  boy 
neither,  judgin'  from  his  build." 

"Boy — hell!  Say,  Oscar,  are  you  as  blind  as 
the  rest  of  that  crowd?"  asked  Josh  Herron, 
coming  to  a  halt  beneath  a  corner  gas  lamp. 
"Was  you  so  skeered,  too,  you  couldn't  see  a 
thing  that  was  right  there  before  your  eyes  as 
plain  as  day?" 

"What  you  talkin'  about?"  demanded  the 
other.  "If  it  wasn't  a  boy,  what  was  it — a 
dwarf?" 

"Oscar,  kin  you  keep  a  secret?"  asked  Josh 
Herron,  grinning  happily.  "Yes?  Then  look 
here." 

He  opened  his  right  hand.  Across  the  palm 
of  it  lay  a  bent  wire  hairpin. 

It  is  possible  that  Oscar,  the  grocer's  clerk, 
did  know  how  to  keep  a  secret.  As  to  that  I 
would  not  presume  to  speak.  Conceding  that 
he  did,  it  is  equally  certain  that  some  persons 
did  not  possess  the  same  gift  of  reticence.  By 
noon  of  the  following  day,  practically  all  who 
[345] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


had  ears  to  hear  with  had  heard  in  one  guise  or 
another  the  story  of  those  midnight  proceed 
ings  upstairs  over  the  Blue  Jug.  It  was  in 
evitable  that  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Evening 
News  should  hear  it,  too,  which  he  did — from 
a  dozen  different  sources  and  by  a  dozen  dif 
fering  versions.  For  publication  at  least  the 
distressed  Highpockets  had  nothing  to  say. 
All  things  being  considered,  this  was  but  natural, 
as  you  will  concede. 

Naturally,  also,  none  might  be  found  in  all 
the  width  and  breadth  of  the  municipality  who 
would  confess  to  having  been  an  eye  witness  to 
the  despoiling  operations,  because  if  you  ad 
mitted  so  much  it  followed  in  the  same  breath 
you  convicted  yourself  of  being  a  frequenter 
of  gaming  establishments,  and,  moreover,  of 
being  one  of  a  considerable  number  of  large, 
strong  men  who  had  suffered  themselves  to  be 
coerced  by  one  diminutive  bandit.  So,  lack 
ing  authoritative  facts  to  go  upon,  and  names 
of  individuals  with  which  to  buttress  his  state 
ments,  Editor  Tompkins,  employing  his  best 
humorous  vein,  wrote  and  caused  to  be  printed 
an  account  veiled  and  vague,  but  not  so  very 
heavily  veiled  at  that  and  not  so  vague  but 
that  one  who  knew  a  thing  or  two  might  guess 
out  the  riddle  of  his  tale. 

Coincidentally,  certain  other  things  hap 
pened  which  might  or  might  not  bear  a  relation 
ship  to  the  main  event.  Old  Mrs.  Postelwaite 
received  by  mail,  in  an  unmarked  envelope 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

and  from  an  unknown  donor,  three  hundred 
and  odd  dollars— no  great  fortune  in  itself,  but 
a  sum  amply  sufficient  to  pay  off  the  mortgage 
on  her  small  birdbox  of  a  dwelling,  and  so  save 
the  place  which  she  called  home  from  foreclos 
ure  at  the  instigation  of  the  Building  &  Loan 
Company.  Since  little  Mrs.  Shetler,  who  lived 
out  on  Wheelis  Street,  had  no  present  source  of 
income  other  than  what  she  derived  by  taking 
subscription  orders  for  literary  works  which 
nobody  cared  to  read  and  few,  except  through 
a  spirit  of  compassion  for  Mrs.  Shetler,  cared  to 
buy,  it  seemed  fair  to  assume  that  from  like  mys 
terious  agencies  she  acquired  the  exact  amount 
of  her  husband's  shortage,  then  owing  to  Kat- 
tersmith  Brothers,  his  recent  employers.  This 
amount  being  duly  turned  over  to  that  firm  the 
fugitive  was  enabled  to  return  from  his  hiding 
and,  rehabilitated,  to  assume  his  former  place 
in  the  community.  For  the  first  time  in  months 
little  Mrs.  Shetler  wore  a  smile  upon  her  face 
and  carried  her  head  erect  when  she  went  abroad. 
Seeing  that  smile  you  would  have  said  yourself 
that  it  was  worth  every  cent  of  the  money. 

The  Widow  Norfleet,  seamstress,  squared 
up  her  indebtedness  with  divers  neighbourhood 
tradesmen,  and  paid  up  her  back  house  rent, 
and  after  doing  all  this  still  had  enough  ready 
cash  left  to  provide  winter  time  garments  for  her 
self  and  a  new  suit  for  her  threadbare  son  Eddie. 
Finally,  Mrs.  Matilda  Weeks,  who  constituted 
in  herself  an  unofficial  but  highly  efficient  local 
[347] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


charity  organisation,  discovered  on  a  certain 
morning  when  she  awoke  that,  during  the  night, 
some  kindly  soul  had  shoved  under  her  front 
door  a  plain  Manila  wrapper,  containing  merely 
a  line  of  writing  on  a  sheet  of  cheap,  blue-ruled 
notepaper:  "For  the  poor  people,"  and  nearly 
three  hundred  dollars  in  bills — merely  that, 
and  nothing  more.  It  was  exactly  in  keeping 
with  Mrs.  Weeks'  own  peculiar  mode  of  phil 
anthropy  that  she  should  accept  this  anonymous 
gift  and  make  use  of  it  without  asking  any 
questions  whatsoever. 

"I  think,  by  all  accounts,  it  must  be  tainted 
money,"  said  Mrs.  Weeks,  "but  I  don't  know 
any  better  way  of  making  dirty  money  clean 
than  by  doing  a  little  good  with  it." 

So  she  kept  the  donation  intact  against  the 
coming  of  the  Christmas,  and  then  she  devoted 
it  to  filling  many  Christmas  dinner  baskets 
and  many  Christmas  stockings  for  the  families 
of  shanty-boaters,  whose  floating  domiciles 
clustered  like  a  flock  of  very  disreputable  water 
fowl  down  by  the  willows,  below  town,  these 
shiftless  river  gypsies  being  included  among 
Mrs.  Weeks'  favourite  wards. 

Meanwhile,  for  upward  of  a  week  after  the 
hold-up  no  steps  of  whatsoever  nature  were 
taken  by  the  members  of  the  police  force.  For 
the  matter  of  that,  no  steps  which  might  be 
called  authoritative  or  in  strict  accordance  with 
the  statutes  made  and  provided  were  ever  taken 
by  them  or  any  one  of  them.  But  one  evening 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

the  acting  head  of  the  department  went  forth 
upon  a  private  mission.  Our  regular  chief, 
Gabe  Henley,  was  laid  up  that  fall,  bedfast 
with  inflammatory  rheumatism,  and  the  fact 
of  his  bekig  for  the  time  an  invalid  may  pos 
sibly  help  to  explain  a  good  deal,  seeing  that 
Gabe  had  the  name  for  both  honesty  and  ear 
nestness  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  even  if  he 
did  fall  some  degrees  short  of  the  mental  stature 
of  an  intellectual  giant. 

So  it  was  the  acting  chief — he  resigned 
shortly  thereafter,  as  I  recall — who  took  it 
upon  himself  to  pay  a  sort  of  domiciliary  visit 
to  the  three-room  cottage  where  the  Widow 
Norfleet  lived  with  her  son  Eddie  and  took  in 
sewing.  He  bore  no  warrant  qualifying  him 
for  violent  entry,  search  of  the  premises  or 
seizure  of  the  person,  and  perhaps  that  was 
why  he  made  no  effort  to  force  his  way  within 
the  little  house;  or  maybe  he  desired  only  to 
put  a  few  pointed  questions  to  the  head  of  the 
house.  So  while  he  stood  at  the  locked  front 
door,  knocking  until  his  knuckles  stung  him 
and  his  patience  had  become  quite  utterly  ex 
hausted,  a  woman  let  herself  out  at  the  back 
of  the  house  and  ran  bareheaded  through  an 
alley  which  opened  into  Clay  Street,  Clay  Street 
being  the  next  street  to  the  west.  When  she 
returned  home  again  at  the  end  of  perhaps  half 
an  hour  a  peep  through  a  hooded  and  shuttered 
front  window  revealed  to  her  that  the  brass- 
buttoned  caller  had  departed. 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


It  was  the  next  morning,  to  follow  with 
chronological  exactitude  the  sequence  of  this 
narrative,  that  our  efficient  young  common 
wealth's  attorney,  Jerome  G.  Flournoy,  let 
himself  into  the  chambers  of  the  circuit  judge. 
Mr.  Flournoy  wore  between  his  brows  a  little 
V  of  perplexity.  But  Judge  Priest,  whom  he 
found  sitting  by  a  grate  fire  stoking  away  at 
his  cob  pipe,  appeared  to  have  not  a  single  care 
concealed  anywhere  about  his  person.  Cer 
tainly  his  forehead  was  free  of  those  wrinkles 
which  are  presumed  to  denote  troublesomeness 
of  thought  on  the  inside. 

"Judge,"  began  Mr.  Flournoy,  without  any 
prolonged  preliminaries,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  going 
to  have  to  take  up  that  Blue  Jug  affair.  And 
I  do  hate  mightily  to  do  it,  seeing  what  the 
consequences  are  liable  to  be.  So  I  thought 
I'd  talk  it  over  with  you  first,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"Son,"  whined  Judge  Priest,  and  to  Mr. 
Flournoy  it  seemed  that  the  phantom  shadow 
of  a  wink  rested  for  the  twentieth  part  of  a 
second  on  the  old  judge's  left  eyelid,  "speakin' 
officially,  it's  barely  possible  that  I  don't  know 
whut  case  you  have  reference  to." 

"Well,  unofficially  then,  you're  bound  to 
have  heard  the  talk  that's  going  round  town," 
said  Mr.  Flournoy.  "Nobody's  talked  of 
anything  else  much  this  past  week,  so  far  as 
I've  been  able  to  notice.  Just  between  you 
and  me,  Judge,  I  made  up  my  mind,  right  from 
[350] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

the  first,  that  unless  it  was  crowded  on  me  I 
wasn't  going  to  take  cognisance  of  the  thing  at 
all.  That's  the  principal  reason  why  I  haven't 
mentioned  the  subject  in  your  presence  before 
now.  As  a  private  citizen,  it  struck  me  that 
that  short-waisted  crook  got  exactly  what  was 
coming  to  him,  especially  as  I  never  heard  of 
bad  money  being  put  to  better  purposes.  But 
aside  from  what  he  lost  in  cash — and  I  reckon 
he  doesn't  think  any  more  of  a  silver  dollar  than 
you  do  of  both  your  legs — it  made  him  the 
laughing  stock  of  twenty  thousand  people,  and 
more  particularly  after  the  true  inside  facts 
began  to  circulate." 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,  son,"  remarked 
Judge  Priest  blandly,  "it  strikes  me  that  I  did 
ketch  the  distant  sound  of  gigglin'  here  and 
there  durin'  the  past  few  days." 

"That's  just  it — the  giggling  must've  got 
under  the  scoundrel's  hide  finally.  I  gather  that 
at  the  beginning  Magee  made  up  his  mind  to 
keep  his  mouth  shut  and  just  take  his  medicine. 
But  I  figure  him  for  the  kind  that  can't  stand 
being  laughed  at  very  long — and  his  own  gang 
have  just  naturally  been  laughing  him  to  death 
all  week.  Anyhow,  he  came  to  my  house  to 
day  right  after  breakfast,  and  called  on  me  as 
the  commonwealth's  attorney  to  put  the  facts 
before  the  Grand  Jury  when  it  convenes  next 
Monday  for  the  fall  term.  He's  even  willing 
to  testify  himself,  he  says.  And  he  says  he  can 
prove  what  went  with  the  money  that  he  lost 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


that  night — or  most  of  it — and  what  became 
of  the  rest  of  it. 

"That's  not  all,  Judge,  either.  Right  on 
top  of  that,  when  I  got  down  to  my  office  I 
found  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hetty  Norfleet,  say 
ing  she  had  nothing  to  conceal  from  the  duly 
sworn  officers  of  the  law,  and  that  she  was 
perfectly  willing  to  answer  any  charges  that 
might  be  made  against  her,  and  that  she  would 
come  to  me  and  make  a  full  statement  any  time 
I  wanted  her  to  come.  Or  substantially  that," 
amended  Mr.  Flournoy,  with  the  lawyer's 
instinct. 

"Is  that  possible?"  quoth  the  judge  in  tones 
of  a  mild  surprise.  With  his  thumb  he  tamped 
down  the  smoulder  in  his  pipe.  The  job  appeared 
to  require  care;  certainly  it  required  full  half 
a  minute  of  time.  When  next  he  spoke  he  had 
entirely  departed  from  the  main  line  of  the 
topic  in  hand. 

"I  reckin,  son,  you  never  knowed  little  Gil 
Nickolas,  did  you?  No,  'taint  in  reason  that 
you  would.  He  died  long  before  your  time. 
Let's  see — he  must've  died  way  back  yonder 
about  eighteen-sixty-nine,  or  maybe  'twas 
eighteen-seventy?  He  got  hisself  purty  badly 
shot  up  at  Chickamauga  and  never  did  en 
tirely  git  over  it.  Well,  sir,  that  there  little 
Gil  Nickolas  wasn't  much  bigger  than  a  cake 
of  lye  soap  after  a  hard  day'  washin',  but  let 
me  tell  you,  he  was  a  mighty  gallant  soldier 
of  the  late  Southern  Confederacy.  I  know  he 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

was  because  we  both  served  together  in  old 
Company  B — the  first  company  that  went  out 
of  this  town  after  the  fussin'  started.  Yes, 
suh,  he  shorely  was  a  spunky  little  raskil.  I 
reckin  he  belonged  to  a  spunky  outfit — I  never 
knowed  one  of  his  breed  yit  that  didn't  have 
more  sand,  when  it  come  right  down  to  cases, 
than  you  could  load  onto  a  hoss  and  waggin." 
Again  he  paused  to  minister  to  the  spark  of  life 
in  his  pipe  bowl.  "I  recall  one  time,  the  first 
year  of  the  war,  me  and  Gil  was  out  on  a  kind 
of  a  foragin'  trip  together  and ' 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Judge  Priest,"  broke 
in  Mr.  Flournoy  a  trifle  stiffly,  "but  I  was 
speaking  of  the  trouble  Mrs.  Hetty  Norfleet's 
gotten  herself  into." 

"I  know  you  was,"  assented  Judge  Priest, 
"and  that's  whut  put  me  in  mind  of  little  Gil 
Nickolas.  He  was  her  paw.  I  ain't  seen  much 
of  her  here  of  recent  years,  but  I  reckin  she's 
had  a  purty  toler'ble  hard  time  of  it.  Her  hus 
band  wasn't  much  account  ez  I  remember  him 
in  his  lifetime." 

"She  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it — mighty 
hard,"  assented  Mr.  Flournoy,  "and  that's  one 
of  the  things  that  makes  my  job  all  the  harder 
for  me." 

"How  so?"    inquired  Judge  Priest. 

"Because,"  expounded  Mr.  Flournoy,  "now, 

I  suppose,  I've  got  to  put  her  under  arrest  and 

bring  her  to  trial.    In  a  way  of  speaking  Magee 

has  got  the  law  on  his  side.    Certainly  he's  got 

1353] 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


the  right  to  call  on  me  to  act.  On  the  surface 
of  things  the  police  are  keeping  out  of  it — I 
reckon  we  both  know  why — and  so  it's  being 
put  up  to  me.  Magee  points  out,  very  truly, 
that  it's  a  felony  charge  anyhow,  and  that  even 
if  his  dear  friend,  the  acting  chief,  should  start 
the  ball  rolling,  in  the  long  run,  sooner  or  later, 
the  case  would  be  bound  to  land  in  circuit 
court." 

"And  whut  then?"  asked  Judge  Priest. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  said  Mr.  Flournoy 
bitterly,  "nothing  much,  except  that  if  that 
poor  little  woman  confesses — and  I  judge  by  the 
tone  of  her  letter  she's  ready  to  do  just  that — 
anyway,  everybody  in  town  knows  by  now 
that  she  was  the  one  that  held  up  that  joint  of 
Magee's  at  the  point  of  a  shotgun — why  the 
jurors,  under  their  oaths,  are  bound  to  bring 
in  a  verdict  of  guilty,  no  matter  how  they  may 
feel  about  it  personally.  Magee  has  about 
reached  the  point  where  he'd  risk  a  jail  term  for 
himself  to  see  her  sentenced  to  the  penitentiary. 
Judge  Priest,  I'd  almost  rather  resign  my  office 
than  be  the  means  of  seeing  that  poor,  little, 
plucky  woman  convicted  for  doing  the  thing 
she  has  done." 

"Wait  a  minute,  son!  Hold  your  hosses  and 
wait  a  minute!"  put  in  the  judge.  "Mebbe  it 
won't  be  absolutely  necessary  fur  you  to  up  and 
resign  so  abrupt.  Your  valuable  services  are 
needed  round  this  courthouse." 

"What's  that  you  say,  Judge?"  asked  the 
[354] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

young  prosecutor,  straightening  his  body  out 
of  the  despondent  curve  into  which  he  had  looped 
it. 

"I  says,  wait  a  minute  and  don't  be  so  prone- 
ful  to  jump  at  conclusions,"  repeated  and 
amplified  the  older  man.  "You  go  and  jump 
at  a  conclusion  that-away  and  you're  liable 
to  skeer  the  poor  thing  half  to  death.  I've  been 
lettin'  you  purceed  ahead  because  I  wanted 
to  git  your  views  on  this  little  matter  before 
I  stuck  my  own  paddle  into  the  kittle.  But 
now  let's  you  and  me  see  ef  there  ain't  another 
side  to  this  here  proposition." 

"I'm  listening,  your  Honour,"  said  Flournoy, 
mystified  but  somehow  cheered. 

"Well,  then!"  The  judge  raised  his  right  arm 
ready  to  emphasise  each  point  he  made  with  a 
wide  swing  of  the  hand  which  held  the  pipe. 
"Under  the  laws  of  this  state  gamblin'  in  what 
soever  form  ain't  permitted,  recognised,  coun 
tenanced  nor  suffered.  That's  so,  ain't  it, 
son?  To  be  shore,  the  laws  as  they  read  at 
present  sometimes  seem  insufficient  somehow 
to  prevent  the  same,  and  I  hope  to  see  them 
corrected  in  that  reguard,  but  the  intent  is  plain 
enough  that,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  public 
gamblin'  es  sech  does  not  go  on  anywhere 
within  the  confines  of  this  commonwealth. 
You  agree  with  me  there,  don't  you?" 

"May  it  please  the  court,  I  agree  with  you 
there,"  said  Flournoy  happily,  beginning,  he 
thought,  to  see  the  light  breaking  through. 
[355] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


"All  right  then — so  fur  so  good.  Now  then, 
sech  bein'  the  situation,  we  may  safely  assume, 
I  reckin,  that  within  the  purview  and  the 
written  meanin'  of  the  statute,  gamblin' — com 
mon  gamblin' — don't  exist  a-tall.  It  jest  natch- 
ally  ain't.  Understand  me,  I'm  speaking  ac- 
cordin'  to  a  strict  legal  construction  of  the  issue. 
And  so,  ef  gamblin'  don't  exist  there  couldn't 
'a'  been  no  gamblin'  goin'  on  upstairs  over  the 
Blue  Jug  saloon  and  restauraw  on  the  night 
in  question.  In  fact,  ef  you  carry  the  point 
out  to  its  logical  endin'  there  couldn't  'a'  been 
no  night  in  question  neither.  In  any  event, 
ef  the  person  Magee  could  by  any  chance  prove 
he  was  there,  in  the  said  place,  on  the  said  date, 
at  the  said  time,  it  would  appear  that  he  was 
present  fur  the  purpose  of  evadin'  and  defyin' 
the  law,  and  so  ef  somebody  ostensibly  and 
apparently  seemed  to  happen  along  and  did 
by  threat  and  duress  deprive  him  of  somethin' 
of  seemin'  value,  he  still  wouldn't  have  no 
standin'  in  court  because  he  couldn't  come  with 
clean  hands  hisse'f  to  press  the  charge. 

"But  there  ain't  no  need  to  go  into  that 
phase  and  aspect  of  the  proposition  because 
we  know  now  that,  legally,  he  wasn't  even  there. 
Not  bein'  there,  of  course  he  wasn't  engaged 
in  carryin'  on  a  game  of  chance.  Not  bein' 
so  engaged,  it  stands  to  reason  he  didn't  lose 
nothin'  of  value.  Ef  he  states  otherwise  we 
are  bound  to  believe  him  to  be  a  victim  of  a 
diseased  and  an  overwrought  mind.  And  so 
[  356  I 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

there, 'I  take  it,  is  the  way  it  stands,  so  fur  ez 
you  are  concerned,  Mister  Flournoy.  You 
can't  ask  a  Grand  Jury  to  return  an  indictment 
ag'inst  a  figment  of  the  imagination,  kin  you? 
Why,  boy,  they'd  laugh  at  you." 

"I  certainly  can't,  Judge,"  agreed  the  young 
man  blithely.  "I  don't  know  how  the  ven 
erable  gentlemen  composing  the  court  of  last 
resort  in  this  state  would  look  upon  the  issue 
if  it  were  carried  up  to  them  on  appeal,  but  for 
my  purposes  you've  stated  the  law  beautifully." 
He  was  grinning  broadly  as  he  stood  up  and 
reached  for  his  hat  and  his  gloves.  "I'm  going 
now  to  break  the  blow  to  our  long-legged 
friend." 

"Whilst  you're  about  it  you  mout  tell  him 
somethin'  else,"  stated  his  superior.  "In  fact, 
you  mout  let  the  word  seep  round  sort  of 
promiscuous-like  that  I'm  aimin'  to  direct 
the  special  attention  of  the  next  Grand  Jury 
to  the  official  conduct  of  certain  members  of 
the  police  force  of  our  fair  little  city.  Ez  re 
gards  the  suppressin'  and  the  punishin'  of 
common  gamblers,  the  law  appears  to  be  sort 
of  loopholey  at  present;  but  mebbe  ef  we  in 
vestigated  the  activities,  or  the  lack  of  same, 
on  the  part  of  divers  of  our  sworn  peace  officers, 
we  mout  be  able  to  scotch  the  snake  a  little 
bit  even  ef  we  can't  kill  it  outright.  Anyway, 
I'm  willin'  to  try  the  experiment.  I  reckin 
there's  quite  a  number  would  be  interested  in 
hearin'  them  tidin's  ef  you're  a  mind  to  put 
[W] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


'em  into  circulation.  Personally,  I'm  impressed 
with  the  idea  that  our  civic  atmosphere  needs 
elarifyin'  somewhut.  All  graftin'  is  hateful 
but  it  seems  to  me  the  little  cheap  graftin'  that 
goes  on  sometimes  in  a  small  community  is 
about  the  nastiest  kind  of  graft  there  is.  Don't 
you  agree  with  me  there?" 

"Judge  Priest,"  stated  Mr.  Flournoy  from 
the  threshold,  "I've  about  made  up  my  mind 
that  I'm  always  going  to  agree  with  you." 

Inside  of  two  hours  the  commonwealth's 
attorney  returned  from  his  errand,  apparently 
much  exalted  of  spirit. 

"Say,  Judge,"  he  proclaimed  as  he  came 
through  the  door,  "I  imagine  it  won't  be  nec 
essary  for  you  to  take  the  steps  you  were  men 
tioning  a  while  ago." 

"No?" 

"No,  siree.  Once  I'd  started  it  I  judge  the 
news  must've  spread  pretty  fast.  Outside  on 
the  Square,  as  I  was  on  my  way  back  up  here 
from  downtown,  Beck  Giltner  waylaid  me  to 
ask  me  to  tell  you  for  him  that  he  was  going  to 
close  down  his  game  and  try  to  make  a  living 
some  other  way.  I'm  no  deep  admirer  of  the 
life,  works  and  character  of  Beck  Giltner,  but 
I'll  say  this  much  for  him — he  keeps  his  promise 
once  he's  made  it.  I'd  take  his  word  before 
I'd  take  the  word  of  a  lot  of  people  who  wouldn't 
speak  to  him  on  the  street. 

"And  we're  going  to  lose  our  uncrowned 
king.  Yes,  sir,  Highpockets  the  First  is  pre- 
[358] 


DOUBLE-BARRELLED     JUSTICE 

paring  to  leave  us  flat.  After  hearing  what  I 
had  to  tell  him,  he  said  in  a  passionate  sort  of 
way  that  a  man  might  as  well  quit  a  community 
where  he  can't  get  justice.  I  gather  that  he's 
figuring  on  pulling  his  freight  for  some  more 
populous  spot  where  he  can  enjoy  a  wider  field 
of  endeavour  and  escape  the  vulgar  snickers 
of  the  multitude.  He  spoke  of  Chicago." 

"Ah,  hah!"  said  Judge  Priest;  and  then  after 
a  little  pause:  "Well,  Jerome,  my  son,  ef  I 
have  to  give  up  any  member  of  this  here  com 
munity  I  reckin  Mister  Highpockets  Elmer 
Magee,  Esquire,  is  probably  the  one  I  kin  spare 
the  easiest.  When  is  he  aimin'  to  go  from  us?" 

"Right  away,  I  think,  from  what  he  said." 

"Well,"  went  on  Judge  Priest,  "ef  so  be  you 
should  happen  to  run  acros't  him  ag'in  before 
he  takes  his  departure  from  amongst  us  you 
mout — in  strict  confidence,  of  course — tell  him 
somethin'  else.  He  mout  care  to  ponder  on  it 
while  he  is  on  his  way  elsewhere.  That  there 
old  scattergun,  which  he  looked  down  the  barrels 
of  it  the  other  night,  wasn't  loaded." 

"Wasn't  loaded?  Wheel"  chortled  Mr. 

Flournoy.  "Well,  of  all  the  good  jokes " 

He  caught  himself:  "Say,  Judge,  how  did  you 
know  it  wasn't  loaded?" 

"Why,  she  told  me,  son — the  Widder  Nor- 
fleet  told  me  so  last  night.  You  see  she  come 
runnin'  over  the  back  way  from  her  house  to 
my  place — I  glean  somethin'  had  happened 
which  made  her  think  the  time  had  arrived  to 


OLD      JUDGE      PRIEST 


put  herself  in  touch  with  sech  of  the  authorities 
ez  she  felt  she  could  trust — and  she  detailed 
the  whole  circumstances  to  me.  'Twas  me 
suggested  to  her  that  she'd  better  write  you 
that  there  letter.  In  fact,  you  mout  say  I  sort 
of  dictated  its  gin'ral  tenor.  I  told  her  that  you 
ez  the  prosecutor  was  the  one  that'd  be  most 
interested  in  hearin'  any  formal  statement  she 
mout  care  to  make,  and  so " 

Mr.  Flournoy  slumped  down  into  a  handy 
chair  and  ran  some  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"Then  part  of  the  joke  is  on  me  too,"  he 
owned. 

"I  wouldn't  go  so  fur  ez  to  say  that,"  spake 
Judge  Priest  soothingly.  "Frum  where  I'm 
settin'  it  looks  to  me  like  the  joke  is  mainly  on 
quite  a  number  of  people." 

"And  the  shotgun  wasn't  loaded?"  Seem 
ingly  Mr.  Flournoy  found  it  hard  to  credit  his 
own  ears. 

"It  didn't  have  nary  charge  in  ary  barrel," 
reaffirmed  the  old  man.  "That  little  woman 
had  the  spunk  to  go  up  there  all  alone  by  herse'f 
and  bluff  a  whole  roomful  of  grown  men,  but 
she  didn't  dare  to  load  up  her  old  fusee — said 
she  didn't  know  how,  in  the  first  place,  and,  in 
the  second  place,  she  was  skeered  it  mout  go  off 
and  hurt  somebody.  Jerome,  ain't  that  fur 
all  the  world  jest  like  a  woman?" 


[360] 


IX 

/ 

A   BEAUTIFUL   EVENING* 


THERE  was  a  sound,  heard  in  the  early 
hours  of  a  Sunday  morning,  that  used 
to  bother  strangers  until  they  got  used 
to  it.     It  started  usually  along  about 
half  past  five  or  six  o'clock  and  it  kept  up  in 
terminably — so  it  seemed  to  them — a  monoto 
nous,  jarring  thump-thump,  thump-thump  that 
was  like  the  far-off  beating  of  African  tomtoms; 
but   at   breakfast,    when   the   beaten   biscuits 
came  upon  the  table,  throwing  off  a  steamy  hot 
halo  of  their  own  goodness,  the  aliens  knew  what 
it  was  that  had  roused  them,  and,  unless  they 
were  dyspeptics  by  nature,  felt  amply  recom 
pensed  for  those  lost  hours  of  beauty  sleep. 

In  these  degenerate  days  I  believe  there  is  a 
machine  that  accomplishes  the  same  purpose 
noiselessly  by  a  process  of  rolling  and  crushing, 

*  Publisher's  Note — Under  a  different  title  this  story  was 
printed  originally  in  another  volume  of  Mr.  Cobb's.  It  is  in 
cluded  here  in  order  to  complete  the  chronicles  of  Judge  Priest 
and  his  people  as  begun  in  the  book  called  "Back  Home"  and 
continued  in  this  book. 

[361] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


which  no  doubt  is  efficacious;  but  it  seems 
somehow  to  take  the  poetry  out  of  the  opera 
tion.  Judge  Priest,  and  the  reigning  black 
deity  of  his  kitchen,  would  have  naught  of  it. 
So  long  as  his  digestion  survived  and  her  good 
right  arm  held  out  to  endure,  there  would  be 
real  beaten  biscuits  for  the  judge's  Sunday 
morning  breakfast.  And  so,  having  risen  with 
the  dawn,  Aunt  Dilsey,  wielding  a  maul-headed 
tool  of  whittled  wood,  would  pound  the  dough 
with  rhythmic  strokes  until  it  was  as  plastic  as 
sculptor's  modelling  clay  and  as  light  as  eider 
down,  full  of  tiny  hills  and  hollows,  in  which 
small  yeasty  bubbles  rose  and  spread  and  burst 
like  foam  globules  on  the  flanks  of  gentle  wave 
lets.  Then,  with  her  master  hand,  she  would 
roll  it  thin  and  cut  out  the  small  round  disks 
and  delicately  pink  each  one  with  a  fork— 
and  then,  if  you  were  listening,  you  could  hear 
the  stove  door  slam  like  the  smacking  of  an 
iron  lip. 

On  a  Sunday  morning  I  have  in  mind,  Judge 
Priest  woke  with  the  first  premonitory  thud 
from  the  kitchen,  and  he  was  up  and  dressed 
in  his  white  linens  and  out  upon  the  wide  front 
porch  while  the  summer  day  was  young  and 
unblemished.  The  sun  was  not  up  good  yet. 
It  made  a  red  glow,  like  a  barn  afire,  through 
the  treetops  looking  eastward.  Lie-abed  black 
birds  were  still  talking  over  family  matters 
in  the  maples  that  clustered  round  the  house, 
and  in  the  back  yard  Judge  Priest's  big  red 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

rooster  hoarsely  circulated  gossip  in  regard  to 
a  certain  little  brown  hen,  first  crowing  out 
the  news  loudly  and  then  listening,  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  while  the  rooster  in  the  next 
yard  took  it  up  and  repeated  it  to  a  rooster 
living  farther  along,  as  is  the  custom  among 
male  scandalisers  the  world  over.  Upon  the 
lawn  the  little  gossamer  hammocks  that  the 
grass  spiders  had  seamed  together  overnight 
were  spangled  with  dew,  so  that  each  out- 
thrown  thread  was  a  glittering  rosary  and  the 
centre  of  each  web  a  silken,  cushioned  jewel 
casket.  Likewise  each  web  was  outlined  in 
white  mist,  for  the  cottonwood  trees  were 
shedding  down  their  podded  product  so  thickly 
that  across  open  spaces  the  slanting  lines  of 
drifting  fibre  looked  like  snow.  It  would  be 
hot  enough  after  a  while,  but  now  the  whole 
world  was  sweet  and  fresh  and  washed  clean. 

It  impressed  Judge  Priest  so.  He  lowered 
his  bulk  into  a  rustic  chair  made  of  hickory 
withes  that  gave  to  his  weight,  and  put  his 
thoughts  upon  breakfast  and  the  goodness  of 
the  day;  but  presently,  as  he  sat  there,  he  saw 
something  that  set  a  frown  between  his  eyes. 

He  saw,  coming  down  Clay  Street,  upon  the 
opposite  side,  an  old  man — a  very  feeble  old 
man — who  was  tall  and  thin  and  dressed  in 
sombre  black.  The  man  was  lame — he  dragged 
one  leg  along  with  the  hitching  gait  of  the 
paralytic.  Travelling  with  painful  slowness, 
he  came  on  until  he  reached  the  corner  above. 
[363] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


Then  automatically  he  turned  at  right  angles 
and  left  the  narrow  wooden  sidewalk  and 
crossed  the  dusty  road.  He  passed  Judge 
Priest's,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the 
left,  and  so  kept  on  until  he  reached  the  corner 
below.  Still  following  an  invisible  path  in 
the  deep-furrowed  dust,  he  crossed  again  to 
the  far  side.  Just  as  he  got  there  his  halt  leg 
seemed  to  give  out  altogether  and  for  a  minute 
or  two  he  stood  holding  himself  up  by  a  fumb 
ling  grip  upon  the  slats  of  a  tree  box  before 
he  went  laboriously  on,  a  figure  of  pain  and 
weakness  in  the  early  sunshine  that  was  now 
beginning  to  slant  across  his  path  and  dapple 
his  back  with  checkerings  of  shadow  and  light. 
This  manoeuvre  was  inexplicable — a  stranger 
would  have  puzzled  to  make  it  out.  The  shade 
was  as  plentiful  upon  one  side  of  Clay  Street 
as  upon  the  other;  each  sagged  wooden  side 
walk  was  in  as  bad  repair  as  its  brother  over 
the  way.  The  small,  shabby  frame  house, 
buried  in  honeysuckles  and  balsam  vines,  which 
stood  close  up  to  the  pavement  line  on  the 
opposite  side  of  Clay  Street,  facing  Judge 
Priest's  roomy,  rambling  old  home,  had  no 
flag  of  pestilence  at  its  door  or  its  window. 
And  surely  to  this  lone  pedestrian  every  added 
step  must  have  been  an  added  labour.  A 
stranger  would  never  have  understood  it;  but 
Judge  Priest  understood  it — he  had  seen  that 
same  thing  repeated  countless  times  in  the 
years  that  stretched  behind  him.  Always  it  had 
[364] 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

distressed  him  inwardly,  but  on  this  particular 
morning  it  distressed  him  more  than  ever.  The 
toiling  grim  figure  in  black  had  seemed  so 
feeble  and  so  tottery  and  old. 

Well,  Judge  Priest  was  not  exactly  what  you 
would  call  young.  With  an  effort  he  heaved 
himself  up  out  of  the  depths  of  his  hickory 
chair  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  his  porch,  polish 
ing  a  pink  dome  of  forehead  as  though  trying 
to  make  up  his  mind  to  something.  Jefferson 
Poindexter,  resplendent  in  starchy  white  jacket 
and  white  apron,  came  to  the  door. 

"Breakfus'  served,  suh!"  he  said,  giving  to 
an  announcement  touching  on  food  that  glam 
our  of  grandeur  of  which  his  race  alone  enjoys 
the  splendid  secret. 

"Hey?"    asked  the  judge  absently. 

"Breakfus' — hit's  on  the  table  waitin',  suh," 
stated  Jeff.  "Mizz  Polks  sent  over  her  house- 
boy  with  a  dish  of  fresh  razberries  fur  yore 
breakfus';  and  she  say  to  tell  you,  with  her 
and  Mistah  Polkses'  compliments,  they  is  fresh 
picked  out  of  her  garden — specially  fur  you." 

The  lady  and  gentleman  to  whom  Jeff  had 
reference  were  named  Polk,  but  in  speaking  of 
white  persons  for  whom  he  had  a  high  regard 
Jeff  always,  wherever  possible  within  the  limi 
tations  of  our  speech,  tacked  on  that  final  s. 
It  was  in  the  nature  of  a  delicate  verbal  com 
pliment,  implying  that  the  person  referred  to 
was  worthy  of  enlargement  and  pluralisation. 

Alone  in  the  cool,  high-ceiled,  white- walled 
[365] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


dining  room,  Judge  Priest  ate  his  breakfast 
mechanically.  The  raspberries  were  pink  beads 
of  sweetness;  the  young  fried  chicken  a  poem 
in  delicate  and  flaky  browns;  the  spoon  bread 
could  not  have  been  any  better  if  it  had  tried; 
and  the  beaten  biscuits  were  as  light  as  snow- 
flakes  and  as  ready  to  melt  on  the  tongue;  as 
symmetrical  too  as  poker-chips,  and  like  poker- 
chips,  subject  to  a  sudden  disappearance  from 
in  front  of  one;  but  Judge  Priest  spoke  hardly 
a  word  all  through  the  meal.  Jeff,  going  out 
to  the  kitchen  for  the  last  course,  said  to  Auni> 
Dilsey : 

"Ole  boss-man  seem  lak  he's  got  somethin' 
on  his  mind  worryin'  him  this  mawnin'." 

When  Jeff  returned,  with  a  turn  of  crisp 
waffles  in  one  hand  and  a  pitcher  of  cane  sirup 
in  the  other,  he  stared  in  surprise,  for  the  dining 
room  was  empty  and  he  could  hear  his  em 
ployer  creaking  down  the  hall.  Jeff  just  natu 
rally  hated  to  see  good  hot  waffles  going  to  waste. 
He  ate  them  himself,  standing  up;  and  they 
gave  him  a  zest  for  his  regular  breakfast,  which 
followed  in  due  course  of  time. 

From  the  old  walnut  hatrack,  with  its  white- 
tipped  knobs  that  stood  just  inside  the  front 
door,  the  judge  picked  up  a  palmleaf  fan;  and 
he  held  the  fan  slantwise  as  a  shield  for  his  eyes 
and  his  bare  head  against  the  sun's  glare  as  he 
went  down  the  porch  steps  and  passed  out  of 
his  own  yard,  traversed  the  empty  street  and 
strove  with  the  stubborn  gate  latch  of  the  little 
[366] 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

house  that  faced  his  own.  It  was  a  poor-looking 
little  house,  and  its  poorness  had  extended  to 
its  surroundings — as  if  poverty  was  a  contagion 
that  spread.  In  Judge  Priest's  yard,  now,  the 
grass,  though  uncared  for,  yet  grew  thick  and 
lush;  but  here,  in  this  small  yard,  there  were 
bare,  shiny  spots  of  earth  showing  through  the 
grass — as  though  the  soil  itself  was  out  at  el 
bows  and  the  nap  worn  off  its  green-velvet 
coat;  but  the  vines  about  the  porch  were  thick 
enough  for  an  ambuscade  and  from  behind 
their  green  screen  came  a  voice  in  hospitable 
recognition. 

"Is  that  you,  Judge?  Well,  suh,  I'm  glad  to 
see  you!  Come  right  in;  take  a  seat  and  sit 
down  and  rest  yourself." 

The  speaker  showed  himself  in  the  arched 
opening  of  the  vine  barrier — an  old  man — not 
quite  so  old,  perhaps,  as  the  judge.  He  was  in 
his  shirtsleeves.  There  was  a  patch  upon  one 
of  the  sleeves.  His  shoes  had  been  newly 
shined,  but  the  job  was  poorly  done;  the  leather 
showed  a  dulled  black  upon  the  toes  and  a 
weathered  yellow  at  the  sides  and  heels.  As 
he  spoke  his  voice  ran  up  and  down — the  voice 
of  a  deaf  person  who  cannot  hear  his  own  words 
clearly,  so  that  he  pitches  them  in  a  false  key. 
For  added  proof  of  this  affliction  he  held  a  lean 
and  slightly  tremulous  hand  cupped  behind  his 
ear. 

The  other  hand  he  extended  in  greeting  as  the 
old  judge  mounted  the  step  of  the  low  porch. 
[467] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


The  visitor  took  one  of  two  creaky  wooden 
rockers  that  stood  in  the  narrow  space  behind 
the  balsam  vines,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  he 
sat  without  speech',  fanning  himself.  Evi 
dently  these  neighbourly  calls  between  these 
two  old  men  were  not  uncommon;  they  could 
enjoy  the  communion  of  silence  together  with 
out  embarrassment. 

The  town  clocks  struck — first  the  one  on  the 
city  hall  struck  eight  times  sedately,  and  then, 
farther  away,  the  one  on  the  county  court 
house.  This  one  struck  five  times  slowly, 
hesitated  a  moment,  struck  eleven  times  with 
great  vigour,  hesitated  again,  struck  once  with 
a  big,  final  boom,  and  was  through.  No 
amount  of  repairing  could  cure  the  courthouse 
clock  of  this  peculiarity.  It  kept  the  time,  but 
kept  it  according  to  a  private  way  of  its  own. 
Immediately  after  it  ceased  the  bell  on  the 
Catholic  church,  first  and  earliest  of  the  Sunday 
bells,  began  tolling  briskly.  Judge  Priest  waited 
until  its  clamouring  had  died  away. 

"Goin'  to  be  good  and  hot  after  'while,"  he 
said,  raising  his  voice. 

"What  say?" 

"I  say  it's  goin'  to  be  mighty  warm  a  little 
later  on  in  the  day,"  repeated  Judge  Priest. 

"Yes,  suh;  I  reckon  you're  right  there," 
assented  the  host.  "Just  a  minute  ago,  before 
you  came  over,  I  was  telling  Liddie  she'd  find 
it  middlin'  close  in  church  this  morning.  She's 
going,  though — runaway  horses  wouldn't  keep 
[368] 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

her  away  from  church!  I'm  not  going  myself 
—seems  as  though  I'm  getting  more  and  more 
out  of  the  church  habit  here  lately." 

Judge  Priest's  eyes  squinted  hi  whimsical 
appreciation  of  this  admission.  He  remembered 
that  the  other  man,  during  the  lifetime  of  his 
second  wife,  had  been  a  regular  attendant  at 
services — going  twice  on  Sundays  and  to 
Wednesday  night  prayer  meetings  too;  but 
the  second  wife  had  been  dead  going  on  four 
years  now — or  was  it  five?  Time  sped  so! 

The  deaf  man  spoke  on: 

"So  I  just  thought  I'd  sit  here  and  try  to 
keep  cool  and  wait  for  that  little  Ledbetter  boy 
to  come  round  with  the  Sunday  paper.  Did 
you  read  last  Sunday's  paper,  Judge?  Colonel 
Watterson  certainly  had  a  mighty  fine  piece 
on  those  Northern  money  devils.  It's  round 
here  somewhere — I  cut  it  out  to  keep  it.  I'd 
like  to  have  you  read  it  and  pass  your  opinion 
on  it.  These  young  fellows  do  pretty  well, 
but  there's  none  of  them  can  write  like  the 
colonel,  in  my  judgment." 

Judge  Priest  appeared  not  to  have  heard  him. 

"Ed  Tilghman,"  he  said  abruptly  in  his  high, 
fine  voice,  that  seemed  absurdly  out  of  place, 
coming  from  his  round  frame,  "you  and  me 
have  lived  neighbours  together  a  good  while, 
ain't  we?  We've  been  right  acros't  the  street 
frum  one  another  all  this  time.  It  kind  of  jolts 
me  sometimes  when  I  git  to  thinkin'  how  many 
years  it's  really  been;  because  we're  gittin* 
[369] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


along  right  smartly  in  years — all  us  old  fel 
lows  are.  Ten  years  frum  now,  say,  there 
won't  be  so  many  of  us  left."  He  glanced  side- 
wise  at  the  lean,  firm  profile  of  his  friend. 
"You're  younger  than  some  of  us;  but,  even 
so,  you  ain't  exactly  whut  I'd  call  a  young  man 
yourse'f." 

Avoiding  the  direct  questioning  gaze  that 
his  companion  turned  on  him  at  this,  the  judge 
reached  forward  and  touched  a  ripe  balsam 
apple  that  dangled  in  front  of  him.  Instantly 
it  split,  showing  the  gummed  red  seeds  clinging 
to  the  inner  walls  of  the  sensitive  pod. 

"I'm  listening  to  you,  Judge,"  said  the  deaf 
man. 

For  a  moment  the  old  judge  waited.  There 
was  about  him  almost  an  air  of  diffidence.  Still 
considering  the  ruin  of  the  balsam  apple,  he 
spoke,  and  it  was  with  a  sort  of  hurried  anxiety, 
as  though  he  feared  he  might  be  checked  before 
he  said  what  he  had  to  say : 

"Ed,  I  was  settin'  on  my  porch  a  while  ago 
waitin'  fur  breakfast,  and  your  brother  came 
by."  He  shot  a  quick,  apprehensive  glance 
at  his  silent  auditor.  Except  for  a  tautened 
flickering  of  the  muscles  about  the  mouth, 
there  was  no  sign  that  the  other  had  heard  him. 
"Your  brother  Abner  came  by,"  repeated  the 
judge,  "and  I  set  over  yonder  on  my  porch 
and  watched  him  pass.  Ed,  Abner's  gittin' 
mighty  feeble!  He  jest  about  kin  drag  himself 
along — he's  had  another  stroke  lately,  they  tell 
[370] 


A     BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

me.  He  had  to  hold  on  to  that  there  treebox 
down  yonder,  stiddyin'  himself  after  he  cross't 
back  over  to  this  side.  Lord  knows  what  he 
was  doin'  draggin'  downtown  on  a  Sunday 
mornin' — force  of  habit,  I  reckin.  Anyway  he 
certainly  did  look  older  and  more  poorly  than 
ever  I  saw  him  before.  He's  a  f ailin'  man  ef  I'm 
any  judge.  Do  you  hear  me  plain?"  he  asked. 

"I  hear  you,"  said  his  neighbour  in  a  curiously 
flat  voice.  It  was  Tilghman's  turn  to  avoid 
the  glances  of  his  friend.  He  stared  straight 
ahead  of  him  through  a  rift  in  the  vines. 

"Well,  then,"  went  on  Judge  Priest,  "here's 
whutf  I've  got  to  say  to  you,  Ed  Tilghman. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I've  never  pried 
into  your  private  affairs,  and  it  goes  mightily 
ag'inst  the  grain  fur  me  to  be  doin'  so  now; 
but,  Ed,  when  I  think  of  how  old  we're  all  gittin' 
to  be,  and  when  the  Camp  meets  and  I  see  you 
settin'  there  side  by  side  almost,  and  yit  never 
seemin'  to  see  each  other — and  this  mornin' 
when  I  saw  Abner  pass,  lookin'  so  gaunted  and 
sick — and  it  sech  a  sweet,  ca'm  mornin'  too, 

and  everythin'  so  quiet  and  peaceful '  He 

broke  off  and  started  anew.  "I  don't  seem  to 
know  exactly  how  to  put  my  thoughts  into 
words — and  puttin'  things  into  words  is  sup 
posed  to  be  my  trade  too.  Anyway  I  couldn't 
go  to  Abner.  He's  not  my  neighbour  and  you 
are;  and  besides,  you're  the  youngest  of  the 
two.  So — so  I  came  over  here  to  you.  Ed, 
I'd  like  mightily  to  take  some  word  frum  you 
[371] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


to  your  brother  Abner.  I'd  like  to  do  it  the 
best  in  the  world!  Can't  I  go  to  him  with  a 
message  frum  you — to-day?  To-morrow  might 
be  too  late!" 

He  laid  one  of  his  pudgy  hands  on  the  bony 
knee  of  the  deaf  man;  but  the  hand  slipped 
away  as  Tilghman  stood  up. 

"Judge  Priest,"  said  Tilghman,  looking 
down  at  him,  "I've  listened  to  what  you've 
had  to  say;  and  I  didn't  stop  you,  because  you 
are  my  friend  and  I  know  you  mean  well  by  it. 
Besides,  you're  my  guest,  under  my  own  roof." 
He  stumped  back  and  forth  in  the  narrow  con 
fines  of  the  porch.  Otherwise  he  gave  no  sign 
of  any  emotion  that  might  be  astir  within  him, 
his  face  being  still  set  and  his  voice  flat.  "What's 
between  me  and  my — what's  between  me  and 
that  man  you  just  named  always  will  be  be 
tween  us.  He's  satisfied  to  let  things  go  on  as 
they  are.  I'm  satisfied  to  let  them  go  on. 
It's  in  our  breed,  I  guess.  Words — just  words 
— wouldn't  help  mend  this  thing.  The  reason 
for  it  would  be  there  just  the  same,  and  neither 
one  of  us  is  going  to  be  able  to  forget  that  so 
long  as  we  both  live.  I'd  just  as  lief  you  never 
brought  this — this  subject  up  again.  If  you 
went  to  him  I  presume  he'd  tell  you  the  same 
thing.  Let  it  be,  Judge  Priest — it's  past  mend 
ing.  We  two  have  gone  on  this  way  for  fifty 
years  nearly.  We'll  keep  on  going  on  so.  I 
appreciate  your  kindness,  Judge  Priest;  but 
let  it  be— let  it  be!" 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

There  was  finality  miles  deep  and  fixed  as 
basalt  in  his  tone.  He  checked  his  walk  and 
called  in  at  a  shuttered  window. 

"Liddie,"  he  said  in  his  natural  up-and-down 
voice,  "before  you  put  off  for  church,  couldn't 
you  mix  up  a  couple  of  lemonades  or  something? 
Judge  Priest  is  out  here  on  the  porch  with  me." 

"No,"  said  Judge  Priest,  getting  slowly  up, 
"I've  got  to  be  gittin'  back  before  the  sun's  up 
too  high.  Ef  I  don't  see  you  ag'in  meanwhile 
be  shore  to  come  to  the  next  regular  meetin' 
of  the  Camp — on  Friday  night,"  he  added. 

"I'll  be  there,"  said  Tilghman.  "And  I'll 
try  to  find  that  piece  of  Colonel  Watterson's 
and  send  it  over  to  you.  I'd  like  mightily  for 
you  to  read  it." 

He  stood  at  the  opening  in  the  vines,  with 
one  slightly  palsied  hand  fumbling  at  a  loose 
tendril  as  the  judge  passed  down  the  short 
yard-walk  and  out  at  the  gate.  Then  he  went 
back  to  his  chair  and  sat  down  again.  All 
the  little  muscles  in  his  jowls  were  jumping. 

Clay  Street  was  no  longer  empty.  Looking 
down  its  dusty  length  from  beneath  the  shelter 
of  his  palmleaf  fan,  Judge  Priest  saw  here  and 
there  groups  of  children — the  little  girls  in 
prim  and  starchy  white,  the  little  boys  hobbling 
in  the  Sunday  torment  of  shoes  and  stockings; 
and  all  of  them  moving  toward  a  common  cen 
tre — Sunday  school.  Twice  again  that  day 
would  the  street  show  life — a  little  later  when 
grown-ups  went  their  way  to  church,  and  again 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


just  after  the  noonday  dinner,  when  young 
people  and  servants,  carrying  trays  and  dishes 
under  napkins,  would  cross  and  recross  from 
one  house  to  another.  The  Sunday  interchange 
of  special  dainties  between  neighbours  amounted 
to  a  ceremonial;  but  after  that,  until  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  the  town  would  simmer  in  quiet, 
while  everybody  took  a  Sunday  nap. 

With  his  fan,  Judge  Priest  made  an  angry 
sawing  motion  in  the  air,  as  though  trying  to 
fend  off  something  disagreeable — a  memory, 
perhaps,  or  it  might  have  been  only  a  persistent 
midge.  There  were  plenty  of  gnats  and  midges 
about,  for  by  now — even  so  soon — the  dew 
was  dried.  The  leaves  of  the  silver  poplars 
were  turning  their  white  under  sides  up  like 
countless  frog  bellies,  and  the  long,  podded 
pendants  of  the  Injun-cigar  trees  hung  dangling 
and  still.  It  would  be  a  hot  day,  sure  enough; 
already  the  judge  felt  wilted  and  worn  out. 

In  our  town  we  had  our  tragedies  that  en 
dured  for  years  and,  in  the  small-town  way, 
finally  became  institutions.  There  was  the 
case  of  the  Burnley s.  For  thirty-odd  years 
old  Major  Burnley  lived  on  one  side  of  his  house 
and  his  wife  lived  on  the  other,  neither  of  them 
ever  crossing  an  imaginary  dividing  line  that 
ran  down  the  middle  of  the  hall,  having  for 
their  medium  of  intercourse  all  that  time  a  lean, 
spinster  daughter,  in  whose  grey  and  barren 
life  churchwork  and  these  strange  home  duties 
took  the  place  that  Nature  had  intended  to  be 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

filled  by  a  husband  and  by  babies  and  grand- 
babies. 

There  was  crazy  Saul  Vance,  in  his  garb  of 
a  fantastic  scarecrow,  who  was  forever  starting 
somewhere  and  never  going  there — because, 
so  sure  as  he  came  to  a  place  where  two  roads 
crossed,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  which 
turn  to  take.  In  his  youth  a  girl  had  jilted 
him,  or  a  bank  had  failed  on  him,  or  a  colt  had 
kicked  him  in  the  head — or  maybe  it  was  all 
three  of  these  things  that  had  addled  his  poor 
brains.  Anyhow  he  went  his  pitiable,  aimless 
way  for  years,  taunted  daily  by  small  boys  who 
were  more  cruel  than  jungle  beasts.  How  he 
lived  nobody  knew,  but  when  he  died  some  of 
the  men  who  as  boys  had  jeered  him  turned  out 
to  be  his  volunteer  pallbearers. 

There  was  Mr.  H.  Jackman — Brother  Jack- 
man  to  all  the  town — who  had  been  our  lead 
ing  hatter  once  and  rich  besides,  and  in  the 
days  of  his  affluence  had  given  the  Baptist 
church  its  bells.  In  his  old  age,  when  he  was 
dog-poor,  he  lived  on  charity,  only  it  was  not 
known  by  that  word,  which  is  at  once  the  sweet 
est  and  the  bitterest  word  in  our  tongue;  for 
Brother  Jackman,  always  primped,  always 
plump  and  well  clad,  would  -go  through  the 
market  to  take  his  pick  of  what  was  there, 
and  to  the  Bichland  House  bar  for  his  toddies, 
and  to  Felsburg  Brothers  for  new  garments 
when  his  old  ones  wore  shabby — and  yet  never 
paid  a  cent  for  anything;  a  kindly  conspiracy 
[375] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


on  the  part  of  the  whole  town  enabling  him  to 
maintain  his  self-respect  to  the  last.  Strangers 
in  our  town  used  to  take  him  for  a  retired 
banker — that's  a  fact! 

And  there  was  old  man  Stackpole,  who  had 
killed  his  man — killed  him  in  fair  fight  and 
was  acquitted — and  yet  walked  quiet  back 
streets  at  all  hours,  a  grey,  silent  shadow,  and 
never  slept  except  with  a  bright  light  burning 
in  his  room. 

The  tragedy  of  Mr.  Edward  Tilghman, 
though,  and  of  Captain  Abner  G.  Tilghman, 
his  elder  brother,  was  both  a  tragedy  and  a 
mystery — the  biggest  tragedy  and  the  deepest 
mystery  the  town  had  ever  known  or  ever 
would  know  probably.  All  that  anybody  knew 
for  certain  was  that  for  upward  of  fifty  years 
neither  of  them  had  spoken  to  the  other,  nor 
by  deed  or  look  had  given  heed  to  the  other. 
As  boys,  back  in  sixty-one,  they  had  gone  out 
together.  Side  by  side,  each  with  his  arm 
over  the  other's  shoulder,  they  had  stood  up  with 
more  than  a  hundred  others  to  be  sworn  into  the 
service  of  the  Confederate  States  of  America; 
and  on  the  morning  they  went  away  Miss  Sally 
May  Ghoulson  had  given  the  older  brother  her 
silk  scarf  off  her  shoulders  to  wear  for  a  sash. 
Both  the  brothers  had  liked  her;  but  by  this 
public  act  she  made  it  plain  which  of  them  was 
her  choice. 

Then  the  company  had  marched  off  to  the 
camp  below  the  Tennessee  border,  where  the 
[376] 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

new  troops  were  drilling;  and  as  they  marched 
some  watchers  wept  and  others  cheered — but 
the  cheering  predominated,  for  it  was  to  be  only 
a  sort  of  picnic  anyhow — so  everybody  agreed. 
As  the  orators — who  mainly  stayed  behind — 
pointed  out,  the  Northern  people  would  not 
fight.  And  even  if  they  should  fight  could  not 
one  Southerner  whip  four  Yankees?  Certainly 
he  could;  any  fool  knew  that  much.  In  a 
month  or  two  months,  or  at  most  three  months, 
they  would  all  be  tramping  home  again,  covered 
with  glory  and  the  spoils  of  war,  and  then — 
this  by  common  report  and  understanding — 
Miss  Sally  May  Ghoulson  and  Abner  Tilgh- 
man  would  be  married,  with  a  big  church 
wedding. 

The  Yankees,  however,  unaccountably  fought, 
and  it  was  not  a  ninety-day  picnic  after  all. 
It  was  not  any  kind  of  a  picnic.  And  when  it 
was  over,  after  four  years  and  a  month,  Miss 
Sally  May  Ghoulson  and  Abner  Tilghman  did 
not  marry.  It  was  just  before  the  battle  of 
Chickamauga  when  the  other  men  in  the  com 
pany  first  noticed  that  the  two  Tilghmans  had 
become  as  strangers,  and  worse  than  strangers, 
to  each  other.  They  quit  speaking  to  each 
other  then  and  there,  and  to  any  man's  knowl 
edge  they  never  spoke  again.  They  served 
the  war  out,  Abner  rising  just  before  the  end  to 
a  captaincy,  Edward  serving  always  as  a  private 
in  the  ranks.  In  a  dour,  grim  silence  they  took 
the  fortunes  of  those  last  hard,  hopeless  days 
[377] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


and  after  the  surrender  down  in  Mississippi 
they  came  back  with  the  limping  handful  that 
was  left  of  the  company;  and  in  age  they  were 
all  boys  still — but  in  experience,  men,  and  in 
suffering,  grandsires. 

Two  months  after  they  got  back  Miss  Sally 
May  Ghoulson  was  married  to  Edward,  the 
younger  brother.  Within  a  year  she  died,  and 
after  a  decent  period  of  mourning  Edward 
married  a  second  time — only  to  be  widowed 
again  after  many  years.  His  second  wife  bore 
him  children  and  they  died — all  except  one, 
a  daughter,  who  grew  up  and  married  badly; 
and  after  her  mother's  death  she  came  back  to 
live  with  her  deaf  father  and  to  minister  to  him. 
As  for  Captain  Abner  Tilghman,  he  never 
married — never,  so  far  as  the  watching  eyes 
of  the  town  might  tell,  looked  with  favour 
upon  any  woman.  And  he  never  spoke  to 
his  brother  or  to  any  of  his  brother's  family — 
or  his  brother  to  him. 

With  years  the  wall  of  silence  they  had 
builded  up  between  them  turned  to  ice  and  the 
ice  to  stone.  They  lived  on  the  same  street, 
but  never  did  Edward  enter  Captain  Abner's 
bank,  never  did  Captain  Abner  pass  Edward's 
house — always  he  crossed  over  to  the  opposite 
side.  They  belonged  to  the  same  Veterans' 
Camp — indeed  there  was  only  the  one  for 
them  to  belong  to;  they  voted  the  same  ticket 
— straight  Democratic;  and  in  the  same  church, 
the  old  Independent  Presbyterian,  they  wor- 
1378] 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

shipped  the  same  God  by  the  same  creed,  the 
older  brother  being  an  elder  and  the  younger  a 
plain  member — and  yet  never  crossed  looks. 

The  town  had  come  to  accept  this  dumb  and 
bitter  feud  as  unchangeable  and  eternal;  in 
time  people  ceased  even  to  wonder  what  its 
cause  had  been,  and  in  all  the  long  years  only 
one  man  had  tried,  before  now,  to  heal  it  up. 
When  old  Doctor  Henrickson  died,  a  young 
and  earnest  clergyman,  fresh  from  a  Virginia 
theological  school,  came  out  to  take  the  vacant 
pulpit;  and  he,  being  filled  with  a  high  sense 
of  his  holy  calling,  thought  it  shameful  that  such 
a  thing  should  be  in  the  congregation.  He  went 
to  see  Captain  Tilghman  about  it.  He  never 
went  but  once.  Afterward  it  came  out  that 
Captain  Tilghman  had  threatened  to  walk  out 
of  church  and  never  darken  its  doors  again 
if  the  minister  ever  dared  to  mention  his 
brother's  name  in  his  presence.  So  the  young 
minister  sorrowed,  but  obeyed,  for  the  captain 
was  rich  and  a  generous  giver  to  the 
church. 

And  he  had  grown  richer  with  the  years,  and 
as  he  grew  richer  his  brother  grew  poorer — 
another  man  owned  the  drug  store  where 
Edward  Tilghman  had  failed.  They  had  grown 
from  young  to  middle-aged  men  and  from 
middle-aged  men  to  old,  infirm  men;  and  first 
the  grace  of  youth  and  then  the  solidness  of 
maturity  had  gone  out  of  them  and  the  gnarli- 
ness  of  age  had  come  upon  them;  one  was  halt 
[379] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


of  step  and  the  other  was  dull  of  ear;  and  the 
town  through  half  a  century  of  schooling  had 
accustomed  itself  to  the  situation  and  took  it 
as  a  matter  of  course.  So  it  was  and  so  it 
always  would  be — a  tragedy  and  a  mystery. 
It  had  not  been  of  any  use  when  the  minister 
interfered;  it  was  of  no  use  now.  Judge  Priest, 
with  the  gesture  of  a  man  who  is  beaten, 
dropped  the  fan  on  the  porch  floor,  went  into 
his  darkened  sitting  room,  stretched  himself 
wearily  on  a  creaking  horsehide  sofa  and  called 
out  to  Jeff  to  make  him  a  mild  toddy — one  with 
plenty  of  ice  in  it. 

On  this  same  Sunday — or,  anyhow,  I  like 
to  fancy  it  was  on  this  same  Sunday — at  a 
point  distant  approximately  nine  hundred  and 
seventy  miles  in  a  northeasterly  direction  from 
Judge  Priest's  town,  Corporal  Jacob  Speck, 
late  of  SigeFs  command,  sat  at  the  kitchen  win 
dow  of  the  combined  Speck  and  Engel  apart 
ment  on  East  Eighty-fifth  Street  in  the  Bor 
ough  of  Manhattan,  New  York.  He  was  in 
his  shirtsleeves;  his  tender  feet  were  incased 
in  a  pair  of  red-and-green  carpet  slippers.  In 
the  angle  of  his  left  arm  he  held  his  youngest 
grandchild,  aged  one  and  a  half  years,  while 
his  right  hand  carefully  poised  a  china  pipe, 
with  a  bowl  like  an  egg-cup  and  a  stem  like  a 
fishpole.  The  corporal's  blue  Hanoverian  eyes, 
behind  their  thick-lensed  glasses,  were  fixed 
upon  a  comprehensive  vista  of  East  Eighty- 
[380] 


BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 


fifth  Street  back  yards  and  clothespoles  and 
fire  escapes;  but  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

Reared  back  there  at  seeming  ease,  the 
corporal  none  the  less  was  distracted  in  his 
mind.  It  was  not  that  he  so  much  minded 
being  left  at  home  to  mind  the  youngest  baby 
while  the  rest  of  the  family  spent  the  after 
noon  amid  the  Teutonic  splendours  of  Smelt- 
zer's  Harlem  River  Casino,  with  its  acres  of 
gravel  walks  and  its  whitewashed  tree  trunks, 
its  straggly  flower  beds  and  its  high-collared 
beers.  He  was  used  to  that  sort  of  thing.  Since 
a  plague  of  multiplying  infirmities  of  the  body 
had  driven  him  out  of  his  job  in  the  tax  office, 
the  corporal  had  not  done  much  except  nurse 
the  babies  that  occurred  in  the  Speck-Engel 
establishment  with  such  unerring  regularity. 
Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he  did  slip  down  to  the 
corner  for  maybe  zwei  glasses  of  beer  and  a  game 
of  pinocle;  but  then,  likely  as  not,  there  would 
come  inopportunely  a  towheaded  descendant 
to  tell  him  Mommer  needed  him  back  at  the 
flat  right  away  to  mind  the  baby  while  she  went 
marketing  or  to  the  movies. 

He  could  endure  that — he  had  to.  What 
riled  Corporal  Jacob  Speck  on  this  warm  and 
sunny  Sunday  was  a  realisation  that  he  was 
not  doing  his  share  at  making  the  history  of 
the  period.  The  week  before  had  befallen  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  marching  away  of 
his  old  regiment  to  the  front;  there  had  been 
articles  in  the  papers  about  it.  Also,  in  patriotic 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


commemoration  of  the  great  event  there  had 
been  a  parade  of  the  wrinkled  survivors — 
ninety-odd  of  them — following  their  tattered, 
faded  battle  flag  down  Fifth  Avenue  past 
apathetic  crowds,  nine-tenths  of  whom  had 
been  born  since  the  war — in  foreign  lands 
mainly;  and  at  least  half,  if  one  might  judge 
by  their  looks,  did  not  know  what  the  parading 
was  all  about,  and  did  not  particularly  care 
either. 

The  corporal  had  not  participated  in  the 
march  of  the  veterans;  he  had  not  even  at 
tended  the  banquet  that  followed  it.  True, 
his  youngest  grandchild  was  at  the  moment 
cutting  one  of  her  largest  jaw  teeth  and  so  had 
required,  for  the  time,  an  extraordinary  and 
special  amount  of  minding;  but  the  young 
lady's  dental  difficulty  was  not  the  sole  reason 
for  his  absence.  Three  weeks  earlier  the  cor 
poral  had  taken  part  in  Decoration  Day,  and 
certainly  one  parade  a  month  was  ample  strain 
upon  underpinning  such  as  he  owned.  He  had 
returned  home  with  his  game  leg  behaving  more 
gamely  then  usual  and  his  sound  one  full  of 
new  and  painful  kinks.  Also,  in  honour  of  the 
occasion,  he  had  committed  the  error  of  wearing 
a  pair  of  stiff  new  shoes;  wherefore  he  had 
favoured  carpet  slippers  ever  since. 

Missing  the  fiftieth  anniversary  was  not  the 
main  point  with  the  corporal — that  was  merely 
the  fortune  of  war,  to  be  accepted  with  fortitude 
and  with  no  more  than  a  proper  and  natural 


A      BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

amount  of  grumbling  by  one  who  had  been  a 
good  soldier  and  was  now  a  good  citizen;  but 
for  days  before  the  event,  and  daily  ever  since, 
divers  members  of  the  old  regiment  had  been 
writing  pieces  to  the  papers — the  German 
papers  and  the  English-printing  papers  too — 
long  pieces,  telling  of  the  trip  to  Washington, 
and  then  on  into  Virginia  and  across  to  Tennes 
see,  speaking  of  this  campaign  and  that  and 
this  battle  and  that.  And  because  there  was 
just  now  a  passing  wave  of  interest  in  Civil 
War  matters,  the  papers  had  printed  these 
contributions,  thereby  reflecting  much  glory 
on  the  writers  thereof.  But  Corporal  Speck, 
reading  these  things,  had  marvelled  deeply 
that  sane  men  should  have  such  disgustingly 
bad  memories;  for  his  own  recollection  of 
these  events  differed  most  widely  from  the 
reminiscent  narration  of  each  misguided 
chronicler. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  shameful  thing  that  the 
most  important  occurrences  of  the  whole  war 
should  be  so  shockingly  mangled  and  mis 
handled  in  the  retelling.  They  were  so  griev 
ously  wrong,  those  other  veterans,  and  he  was 
so  absolutely  right.  He  was  always  right  in 
these  matters.  Only  the  night  before,  during 
a  merciful  respite  from  nursing  duties,  he  had, 
in  Otto  Wittenpen's  back  barroom,  spoken  across 
the  rim  of  a  tall  stein  with  some  bitterness 
regarding  certain  especially  grievous  misstate- 
ments  of  plain  fact  on  the  part  of  faulty-minded 
[383] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


comrades.  In  reply  Otto  had  said,  in  a  rather 
sneering  tone  the  corporal  thought:  . 

"Say,  then,  Jacob,  why  don't  you  yourself 
write  a  piece  to  the  paper  telling  about  this 
regiment  of  yours — the  way  it  was?" 

"I  will.  To-morrow  I  will  do  so  without 
fail,"  he  had  said,  the  ambition  of  authorship 
suddenly  stirring  within  him.  Now,  however, 
as  he  sat  at  the  kitchen  window,  he  gloomed 
in  his  disappointment,  for  he  had  tried  and  he 
knew  he  had  not  the  gift  of  the  written  line. 
A  good  soldier  he  had  been — ja,  none  better 
— and  a  good  citizen,  and  in  his  day  a  capable 
and  painstaking  doorkeeper  in  the  tax  office; 
but  he  could  not  write  his  own  story.  That 
morning,  when  the  youngest  grandbaby  slept 
and  his  daughter  and  his  daughter's  husband 
and  the  brood  of  his  older  grandchildren  were 
all  at  the  Lutheran  church  over  in  the  next 
block,  he  sat  himself  down  to  compose  his 
article  to  the  paper;  but  the  words  would  not 
come — or,  at  least,  after  the  first  line  or  two 
they  would  not  come. 

The  mental  pictures  of  those  stirring  great 
days  when  he  marched  off  on  his  two  good  legs 
— both  good  legs  then — to  fight  for  the  country 
whose  language  he  could  not  yet  speak  were 
there  in  bright  and  living  colours ;  but  the  sorry 
part  of  it  was  he  could  not  clothe  them  in 
language.  In  the  trash  box  under  the  sink  a 
dozen  crumpled  sheets  of  paper  testified  to  his 
failure,  and  now,  alone  with  the  youngest  Miss 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

Engel,  he  brooded  over  it  and  got  low  in  his 
mind  and  let  his  pipe  go  smack  out.  And 
right  then  and  there,  with  absolutely  no  warn 
ing  at  all,  there  came  to  him,  as  you  might  say 
from  the  clear  sky,  a  great  idea — an  idea  so 
magnificent  that  he  almost  dropped  little 
Miss  Engel  off  his  lap  at  the  splendid  shock 
of  it. 

With  solicitude  he  glanced  down  at  the  small, 
moist,  pink,  lumpy  bundle  of  prickly  heat  and 
sore  gums.  Despite  the  jostle  the  young  lady 
slept  steadily  on.  Very  carefully  he  laid  his 
pipe  aside  and  very  carefully  he  got  upon  his 
feet,  jouncing  his  charge  soothingly  up  and 
down,  and  with  deftness  he  committed  her  small 
person  to  the  crib  that  stood  handily  by.  She 
stirred  fretfully,  but  did  not  wake.  The  cor 
poral  steered  his  gimpy  leg  and  his  rheumatic 
one  out  of  the  kitchen,  which  was  white  with 
scouring  and  as  clean  as  a  new  pin,  into  the 
rearmost  and  smallest  of  the  three  sleeping 
rooms  that  mainly  made  up  the  Speck-Engel 
apartment. 

The  bed,  whereon  of  nights  Corporal  Speck 
reposed  with  a  bucking  bronco  of  an  eight- 
year-old  grandson  for  a  bedmate,  was  jammed 
close  against  the  plastering,  under  the  one 
small  window  set  diagonally  in  a  jog  in  the  wall, 
and  opening  out  upon  an  airshaft,  like  a  chim 
ney.  Time  had  been  when  the  corporal  had 
a  room  and  a  bed  all  his  own;  that  was  before 
the  family  began  to  grow  so  fast  in  its  second 
[  385  ] 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


generation  and  he  still  held  a  place  of  lucrative 
employment  at  the  tax  office. 

As  he  got  down  upon  his  knees  beside  the 
bed  the  old  man  uttered  a  little  groan  of  dis 
comfort.  He  felt  about  in  the  space  under 
neath  and  drew  out  a  small  tin  trunk,  rusted 
on  its  corners  and  dented  in  its  sides.  He  made 
a  laborious  selection  of  keys  from  a  key-ring 
he  got  out  of  his  pocket,  unlocked  the  trunk 
and  lifted  out  a  heavy  top  tray.  The  tray 
contained,  among  other  things,  such  treasures 
as  his  naturalisation  papers,  his  pension  papers, 
a  photograph  of  his  dead  wife,  and  a  small 
bethumbed  passbook  of  the  East  Side  Ger- 
mania  Savings  Bank.  Underneath  was  a  black 
fatigue  hat  with  a  gold  cord  round  its  crown, 
a  neatly  folded  blue  uniform  coat,  with  the 
G.  A.  R.  bronze  showing  in  its  uppermost 
lapel,  and  below  that,  in  turn,  the  suit  of  neat 
black  the  corporal  wore  on  high  state  occasions 
and  would  one  day  wear  to  be  buried  in.  Paw 
ing  and  digging,  he  worked  his  hands  to  'the 
very  bottom,  and  then,  with  a  little  grunt,  he 
heaved  out  the  thing  he  wanted — the  one 
trophy,  except  a  stiffened  kneecap  and  an 
honourable  record,  this  old  man  brought  home 
from  the  South.  It  was  a  captured  Confederate 
knapsack,  flattened  and  flabby.  Its  leather 
was  dry-rotted  with  age  and  the  brass  C.  S.  A. 
on  the  outer  flap  was  gangrened  and  sunken 
in;  the  flap  curled  up  stiffly,  like  an  old  shoe 

sole. 

[386] 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

The  crooked  old  fingers  undid  a  buckle  fas 
tening  and  from  the  musty  and  odorous  in 
terior  of  the  knapsack  withdrew  a  letter,  in  a 
queer-looking  yellowed  envelope,  with  a  queer- 
looking  stamp  upon  the  upper  right-hand  cor 
ner  and  a  faint  superscription  upon  its  face. 
The  three  sheets  of  paper  he  slid  out  of  the 
envelope  were  too  old  even  to  rustle,  but  the 
close  writing  upon  them  in  a  brownish,  faded 
ink  was  still  plainly  to  be  made  out. 

Corporal  Speck  replaced  the  knapsack  in  its 
place  at  the  very  bottom,  put  the  tray  back 
in  its  place,  closed  the  trunk  and  locked  it  and 
shoved  it  under  the  bed.  The  trunk  resisted 
slightly  and  he  lost  one  carpet  slipper  and  con 
siderable  breath  in  the  struggle.  Limping  back 
to  the  kitchen  and  seeing  little  Miss  Engel  still 
slumbered,  he  eased  his  frame  into  a  chair  and 
composed  himself  to  literary  composition,  not 
in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  shouts  of  roistering 
sidewalk  comedians  that  filtered  up  to  him 
from  down  below  in  front  of  the  house,  or  by  the 
distant  clatter  of  intermittent  traffic  over  the 
cobbly  spine  of  Second  Avenue,  half  a  block 
away.  For  some  time  he  wrote,  with  a  most 
scratchy  pen;  and  this  is  what  he  wrote: 

"TCKTHE  EDITOR  OF  THE  'SuN,'  CITY. 

"Dear  Sir:  The  undersigned  would  state 
that  he  served  two  years  and  nine  months — 
until  wounded  in  action — in  the  Fighting  Two 
Hundred  and  Tenth  New  York  Infantry,  and 


OLD     JUDGE      PRIEST 


has  been  much  interested  to  see  what  other 
comrades  wrote  for  the  papers  regarding  same 
in  connection  with  the  Rebellion  War  of  North 
and  South  respectively.  I  would  state  that 
during  the  battle  of  Chickamauga  I  was  for  a 
while  lying  near  by  to  a  Confederate  soldier — 
name  unknown — who  was  dying  on  account 
of  a  wound  in  the  chest.  By  his  request  I 
gave  him  a  drink  of  water  from  my  canteen, 
he  dying  shortly  thereafter.  Being  myself 
wounded — right  knee  shattered  by  a  Minie 
ball — I  was  removed  to  a  field  hospital;  but 
before  doing  so  I  brought  away  this  man's 
knapsack  for  a  keepsake  of  the  occasion.  Some 
years  later  I  found  in  said  knapsack  a  letter, 
which  previous  to  then  was  overlooked  by  me. 
I  inclose  herewith  a  copy  of  said  letter,  which 
it  may  be  interesting  for  reading  purposes  by 
surviving  comrades. 

"Respectfully  yours, 

"JACOB  SPECK, 

"Late  Corporal  L  Company, 
"Fighting  Two  Hundred  and  Tenth  New  York,  U.  S.  A." 

With  deliberation  and  squeaky  emphasis  the 
pen  progressed  slowly  across  the  paper,  while 
the  corporal,  with  his  left  hand,  held  flat  the  dead 
man's  ancient  letter  before  him,  intent  on  copy 
ing  it.  Hard  words  puzzled  him  and  long  words 
daunted  him,  and  he  was  making  a  long  job  of  it 
when  there  were  steps  in  the  hall  without.  En 
tered  breezily  Miss  Hortense  Engel,  the  eldest  of 
[388  ] 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

all  the  multiplying  Engels,  pretty  beyond  ques 
tion  and  every  inch  American,  having  the  gift  of 
wearing  Lower  Sixth  Avenue's  stock  designs 
hi  a  way  to  make  them  seem  Upper  Fifth 
Avenue's  imported  models.  Miss  Engel's  face 
was  pleasantly  flushed;  she  had  just  parted 
lingeringly  from  her  steady  company,  Mr. 
Lawrence  J.  McLaughlin,  plumber's  helper, 
in  the  lower  hallway,  which  is  the  trysting  place 
and  courting  place  of  tenement-dwelling  sweet 
hearts,  and  now  she  had  come  to  make  ready 
the  family's  cold  Sunday  night  tea.  At  sight 
of  her  the  corporal  had  another  inspiration 
— his  second  within  the  hour.  His  brow 
smoothed  and  he  fetched  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  'Lo,  grosspops!"  she  said.  "How's  every 
little  thing?  The  kiddo  all  right?" 

She  unpinned  a  Sunday  hat  that  was  plumed 
like  a  hearse  and  slipped  on  a  long  apron  that 
covered  her  from  high  collar  to  hobble  hem. 

"Girl,"  said  her  grandfather,  "would  you 
make  to-morrow  for  me  at  the  office  a  copy  of 
this  letter  on  the  typewriter  machine?" 

He  spoke  in  German  and  she  answered  in 
New-Yorkese,  while  her  nimble  fingers  wrestled 
with  the  task  of  back-buttoning  her  apron. 

"Sure  thing!  It  won't  take  hardly  a  minute 
to  rattle  that  off.  Funny-looking  old  thing!" 
she  went  on,  taking  up  the  creased  and  faded 
original.  "Who  wrote  it?  And  whatcher  goin' 
to  do  with  it,  grosspops?" 

"That,"  he  told  her,  "is  mine  own  business! 
X  389  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


It  is  for  you,  please,  to  make  the  copy  and  bring 
both  to  me  to-morrow,  the  letter  and  also  the 
copy." 

So  on  Monday  morning,  when  the  rush  of 
taking  dictation  at  the  offices  of  the  Great 
American  Hosiery  Company,  in  Broome  Street, 
was  well  abated,  the  competent  Miss  Hortense 
copied  the  letter,  and  that  same  evening  her 
grandfather  mailed  it  to  the  Sun,  accompanied 
by  his  own  introduction.  The  Sun  straight 
way  printed  it  without  change  and — what 
was  still  better — with  the  sender's  name  spelled 
out  in  capital  letters;  and  that  night,  at  the 
place  down  by  the  corner,  Corporal  Jacob 
Speck  was  a  prophet  not  without  honour  in 
his  own  country.  Much  honour,  in  fact, 
accrued. 

You  may  remember  that,  upon  a  memorable 
occasion,  Judge  Priest  went  on  a  trip  to  New 
York  and  while  there  had  dealings  with  a  Mr. 
J.  Hayden  Witherbee,  a  promoter  of  gas  and 
other  hot-air  propositions;  and  that  during 
the  course  of  his  stay  in  the  metropolis  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  one  Malley,  a  Sun  reporter. 
This  had  happened  some  years  back,  but  Malley 
was  still  on  the  staff  of  the  Sun.  It  happened 
also  that,  going  through  the  paper  to  clip  out 
and  measure  up  his  space,  Malley  came  upon 
the  corporal's  contribution.  Glancing  over 
it  idly,  he  caught  the  name,  twice  or  thrice 
repeated,  of  the  town  where  Judge  Priest  lived. 
So  he  bundled  together  a  couple  of  copies  and 
[390] 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

sent  them  South  with  a  short  letter;  and  there 
fore  it  came  about  in  due  season,  through  the 
good  offices  of  the  United  States  Post-office 
Department,  these  enclosures  reached  the  judge 
on  a  showery  Friday  afternoon  as  he  loafed 
upon  his  wide  front  porch,  waiting  for  his  supper. 

First,  he  read  Malley's  letter  and  was  glad 
to  hear  from  Malley.  With  a  quickened  in 
terest  he  ran  a  plump  thumb  under  the  wrap 
pings  of  the  two  close-rolled  papers,  opened 
out  one  of  them  at  page  ten  and  read  the  open 
ing  statement  of  Corporal  Jacob  Speck,  for 
whom  instantly  the  judge  conceived  a  long 
distance  fondness.  Next  he  came  to  the  letter 
that  Miss  Hortense  Engel  had  so  accurately 
transcribed,  and  at  the  very  first  words  of  it  he 
sat  up  straighter,  with  a  surprised  and  gratified 
little  grunt;  for  he  had  known  them  both — 
the  writer  of  that  letter  and  its  recipient. 
One  still  lived  in  his  memory  as  a  red-haired 
girl  with  a  pert,  malicious  face,  and  the  other 
as  a  stripling  youth  in  a  ragged  grey  uniform. 
And  he  had  known  most  of  those  whose  names 
studded  the  printed  lines  so  thickly.  Indeed, 
some  of  them  he  still  knew — only  now  they 
were  old  men  and  old  women — faded,  wrinkled 
bucks  and  belles  of  a  far-distant  day. 

As  he  read  the  first  words  it  came  back  to 
the  judge,  almost  with  the  jolting  emphasis 
of  a  new  and  fresh  sensation,  that  in  the  days 
of  his  own  youth  he  had  not  liked  the  girl 
who  wrote  that  letter  nor  the  man  who  received 
[  391  ] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIES  T . 


it.  But  she  was  dead  this  many  and  many 
a  year — why,  she  must  have  died  soon  after 
she  wrote  this  very  letter — the  date  proved 
that — and  he,  the  man,  had  fallen  at  Chicka- 
mauga,  taking  his  death  in  front  like  a  soldier; 
and  surely  that  settled  everything  and  made  all 
things  right!  But  the  letter — that  was  the 
main  thing.  His  old  blue  eyes  skipped  nimbly 
behind  the  glasses  that  saddled  the  tip  of  his 
short  pink  nose,  and  the  old  judge  read  it — 
just  such  a  letter  as  he  himself  had  received 
many  a  time;  just  such  a  wartime  letter  as 
uncounted  thousands  of  soldiers  North  and 
South  received  from  their  sweethearts  and  read 
and  reread  by  the  light  of  flickering  campfires 
and  carried  afterward  in  their  knapsacks 
through  weary  miles  of  marching. 

It  was  crammed  with  the  small-town  gossip 
of  a  small  town  that  was  but  little  more  than 
a  memory  now — telling  how,  because  he  would 
not  volunteer,  a  hapless  youth  had  been  way 
laid  by  a  dozen  high-spirited  girls  and  over 
powered,  and  dressed  in  a  woman's  skirt  and 
a  woman's  poke  bonnet,  so  that  he  left  town 
with  his  shame  between  two  suns;  how,  since 
the  Yankees  had  come,  sundry  faithless  females 
were  friendly — actually  friendly,  this  being 
underscored — with  the  more  personable  of  the 
young  Yankee  officers;  how  half  the  town  was 
in  mourning  for  a  son  or  brother  dead  or 
wounded;  how  a  new  and  sweetly  sentimental 
song,  called  Rosalie,  the  Prairie  Flower,  was 
[392] 


BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 


being  much  sung  at  the  time — and  had  it 
reached  the  army  yet? — how  old  Mrs.  Hobbs 
had  been  exiled  to  Canada  for  seditious  acts 
and  language  and  had  departed  northward 
between  two  files  of  bluecoats,  reviling  the 
Yankees  with  an  unbitted  tongue  at  every 
step;  how  So-and-So  had  died  or  married  or 
gone  refugeeing  below  the  enemy's  ttine  into 
safely  Southern  territory;  how  this  thing  had 
happened  and  that  thing  had  not. 

The  old  judge  read  on  and  on,  catching 
gladly  at  names  that  kindled  a  tenderly  warm 
glow  of  half-forgotten  memories  in  his  soul, 
until  he  came  to  the  last  paragraph  of  all;  and 
then,  as  he  comprehended  the  intent  of  it  in 
all  its  barbed  and  venomed  malice,  he  stood 
suddenly  erect,  with  the  outspread  paper  shak 
ing  in  his  hard  grip.  For  now,  coming  back  to 
him  by  so  strange  a  way  across  fifty  years  of 
silence  and  misunderstanding,  he  read  there  the 
answer  to  the  town's  oldest,  biggest  tragedy  and 
knew  what  it  was  that  all  this  time  had  festered, 
like  buried  thorns,  in  the  flesh  of  those  two  men, 
his  comrades  and  friends.  He  dropped  the  paper, 
and  up  and  down  the  wide,  empty  porch  he 
stumped  on  his  short  legs,  shaking  with  the 
shock  of  revelation  and  with  indignation  and 
with  pity  for  the  blind  and  bitter  uselessness 
of  it  all. 

"Ah,  hah!"  he  said  to  himself  over  and  over 
again  understandingly.  "Ah,  hah!"  And  then: 
"Next  to  a  mean  man,  a  mean  woman  is  the 
[393] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


meanest  thing  in  this  whole  created  world,  I 
reckin.  I  ain't  shore  but  whut  she's  the  mean 
est  of  the  two.  And  to  think  of  what  them  two 
did  between  'em — she  writin'  that  hellish  black 
lyin'  tale  to  'Lonzo  Pike  and  he  puttin'  off 
hotfoot  to  Abner  Tilghman  to  poison  his  mind 
with  it  and  set  him  like  a  flint  ag'inst  his  own 
flesh  and  blood!  And  wasn't  it  jest  like  Lon 
Pike  to  go  and  git  himself  killed  the  next  day 
after  he  got  that  there  letter!  And  wasn't  it 
jest  like  her  to  up  and  die  before  the  truth 
could  be  brought  home  to  her!  And  wasn't  it 
like  them  two  stubborn,  set,  contrary,  close- 
mouthed  Tilghman  boys  to  go  'long  through 
all  these  years,  without  neither  one  of  'em  ever 
offerin'  to  make  or  take  an  explanation!"  His 
tone  changed.  "Oh,  ain't  it  been  a  pitiful 
thing!  And  all  so  useless!  But — oh,  thank  the 
Lord — it  ain't  too  late  to  mend  it  part  way 
anyhow!  Thank  God,  it  ain't  too  late  fur  that!" 

Exulting  now,  he  caught  up  the  paper  he 
had  dropped,  and  with  it  crumpled  in  his 
pudgy  fist  was  half-way  down  the  gravel  walk, 
bound  for  the  little  cottage  snuggled  in  its 
vine  ambush  across  Clay  Street,  before  a  better 
and  a  bigger  inspiration  caught  up  with  him 
and  halted  him  midway  of  an  onward  stride. 

Was  not  this  the  second  Friday  in  the  month? 
It  certainly  was.  And  would  not  the  Camp  be 
meeting  to-night  in  regular  semimonthly  ses 
sion  at  Kamleiter's  Hall  ?  It  certainly  would. 
For  just  a  moment  Judge  Priest  considered  the 


A      BE  A  U  TIFUL      EVENING 

proposition.  He  slapped  his  linen  clad  flank 
gleefully,  and  his  round  old  face,  which  had 
been  knotted  with  resolution,  broke  up  into 
a  wrinkly,  ample  smile;  he  spun  on  his  heel 
and  hurried  back  into  the  house  and  to  the 
telephone  in  the  hall.  For  half  an  hour,  more 
or  less,  Judge  Priest  was  busy  at  that  telephone, 
calling  in  a  high,  excited  voice,  first  for  one 
number  and  then  for  another.  While  he  did 
this  his  supper  grew  cold  on  the  table,  and  in 
the  dining  room  Jeff,  the  white-clad,  fidgeted 
and  out  in  the  kitchen  Aunt  Dilsey,  the  tur- 
baned,  fumed — but,  at  Kamleiter's  Hall  that 
night  at  eight,  Judge  Priest's  industry  was  in 
abundant  fulness  rewarded. 

Once  upon  a  time  Gideon  K.  Irons  Camp 
claimed  a  full  two  hundred  members,  but  that 
had  been  when  it  was  first  organised.  Now 
there  were  in  good  standing  less  than  twenty. 
Of  these  twenty,  fifteen  sat  on  the  hard  wooden 
chairs  when  Judge  Priest  rapped  with  his  metal 
spectacle  case  for  order,  and  that  fifteen  meant 
all  who  could  travel  out  at  nights.  Doctor 
Lake  was  there,  and  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby, 
the  faithful  and  inevitable.  It  was  the  biggest 
turnout  the  Camp  had  had  in  a  year. 

Far  over  on  one  side,  cramped  down  in  a 
chair,  was  Captain  Abner  Tilghman,  feeble 
and  worn-looking.  His  buggy  horse  stood 
hitched  by  the  curb  downstairs.  Sergeant 
Jimmy  Bagby  had  gone  to  his  house  for  him 
and  on  the  plea  of  business  of  vital  moment 
[  295  I 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


had  made  him  come  with  him.  Almost  directly 
across  the  middle  aisle  on  the  other  side  sat 
Mr.  Edward  Tilghman.  Nobody  had  to  go  for 
him.  He  always  came  to  a  regular  meeting  of 
the  Camp,  even  though  he  heard  the  proceedings 
only  in  broken  bits. 

The  adjutant  called  the  roll  and  those  present 
answered,  each  one  to  his  name;  and  mainly 
the  voices  sounded  bent  and  sagged,  like  the 
bodies  of  their  owners.  But  a  keen  onlooker 
might  have  noticed  a  sort  of  tremulous,  joyous 
impatience,  which  filled  all  save  two  of  these 
old,  grey  men,  pushing  the  preliminaries  for 
ward  with  uncommon  speed.  They  fidgeted 
in  their  places. 

Presently  Judge  Priest  cleared  his  throat  of 
a  persistent  huskiness  and  stood  up. 

"Before  we  purceed  to  the  regular  routine," 
he  piped,  "I  desire  to  present  a  certain  matter 
to  a  couple  of  our  members."  He  came  down 
off  the  little  platform,  where  the  flags  were 
draped,  with  a  step  that  was  almost  light, 
and  into  Captain  Abner  Tilghman's  hand  he 
put  a  copy  of  a  city  paper,  turned  and  folded 
at  a  certain  place,  where  a  column  of  printed 
matter  was  scored  about  with  heavy  pencil 
bracketings.  "Cap'n,"  he  said,  "ez  a  personal 
favour  to  me,  suh,  would  you  please  read  this 
here  article? — the  one  that's  marked" — he 
pointed  with  his  finger — "not  aloud — read  it 
to  yourself,  please." 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  paralytic  to  say 
[  396  ] 


A     BEAUTIFUL     EVENING 

nothing.  Without  a  word  he  adjusted  his 
glasses  and  without  a  word  he  began  to  read. 
So  instantly  intent  was  he  that  he  did  not  see 
what  followed  next — and  that  was  Judge 
Priest  crossing  over  to  Mr.  Edward  Tilghman's 
side  with  another  copy  of  the  same  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"Ed,"  he  bade  him,  "read  this  here  article, 
won't  you?  Read  it  clear  through  to  the  end 
— it  mout  interest  you  mebbe."  The  deaf 
man  looked  up  at  him  wonderingly,  but  took 
the  paper  in  his  slightly  palsied  hand  and  bent 
his  head  close  above  the  printed  sheet. 

Judge  Priest  stood  in  the  middle  aisle,  mak 
ing  no  move  to  go  back  to  his  own  place.  He 
watched  the  two  silent  readers.  All  the  others 
watched  them  too.  They  read  on,  making 
slow  progress,  for  the  light  was  poor  and  their 
eyes  were  poor.  And  the  watchers  could  hardly 
contain  themselves;  they  could  hardly  wait. 
Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  kept  bobbing  up  and 
down  like  a  pudgy  jack-in-the-box  that  is 
slightly  stiff  in  its  joints.  A  small,  restrained 
rustle  of  bodies  accompanied  the  rustle  of  the 
folded  newspapers  held  in  shaky  hands. 

Unconscious  of  all  scrutiny,  the  brothers 
read  on.  Perhaps  because  he  had  started  first 
— perhaps  because  his  glasses  were  the  more 
expensive  and  presumably  therefore  the  more 
helpful — Captain  Abner  Tilghman  came  to 
the  concluding  paragraph  first.  He  read  it 
through — and  then  Judge  Priest  turned  his 
[397] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


head  away,  for  a  moment  almost  regretting  he 
had  chosen  so  public  a  place  for  this  thing. 

He  looked  back  again  in  t^ime  to  see  Captain 
Abner  getting  upon  his  feet.  Dragging  his 
dead  leg  behind  him,  the  paralytic  crossed  the 
bare  floor  to  where  his  brother's  grey  head 
was  bent  to  his  task.  And  at  his  side  he  halted, 
making  no  sound  or  sign,  but  only  waiting. 
He  waited  there,  trembling  all  over,  until  the 
sitter  came  to  the  end  of  the  column  and  read 
what  was  there — and  lifted  a  face  all  glorified 
with  a  perfect  understanding. 

"Eddie!"  said  the  older  man— "Eddie!" 
H«  uttered  a  name  of  boyhood  affection  that 
none  there  had  heard  uttered  for  fifty  years 
nearly;  and  it  was  as  though  a  stone  had  been 
rolled  away  from  a  tomb — as  though  out  of  the 
grave  of  a  dead  past  a  voice  had  risen  resur 
rected.  "Eddie!"  he  said  a  third  time,  plead 
ingly,  abjectly,  humbly,  craving  for  forgiveness. 

"Brother  Abner!"  said  the  other  man.  "Oh, 
Brother  Abner!"  he  said — and  that  was  all 
he  did  say — all  he  had  need  to  say,  for  he  was 
on  his  feet  now,  reaching  out  with  wide-spread, 
shaking  arms. 

Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  tried  to  start  a  yell, 
but  could  not  make  it  come  out  of  his  throat 
—only  a  clicking,  squeaking  kind  of  sound 
came.  Considered  as  a  yell  it  was  a  miserable 
failure. 

Side  by  side,  each  with  his  inner  arm  tight 
gripped  about  the  other,  the  brothers,  bare- 
[398] 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENING 

headed,  turned  their  backs  upon  their  friends 
and  went  away.  Slowly  they  passed  out 
through  the  doorway  into  the  darkness  of  the 
stair  landing,  and  the  members  of  the  Gideon 
K.  Irons  Camp  were  all  up  on  their  feet. 

"Mind  that  top  step,  Abner!"  they  heard  the 
younger  man  say.  "Wait!  I'll  help  you  down." 

And  that  was  all  except  a  scuffling  sound  of 
uncertainly  placed  feet,  growing  fainter  and 
fainter  as  the  two  brothers  passed  down  the 
long  stairs  of  Kamleiter's  Hall  and  out  into 
the  night  together — that  was  all,  unless  you 
would  care  to  take  cognisance  of  a  subdued 
little  chorus  such  as  might  be  produced  by 
twelve  or  thirteen  elderly  men  snuffling  in  a 
large  bare  room.  As  commandant  of  the 
Camp  it  was  fitting,  perhaps,  that  Judge  Priest 
should  speak  first. 

"The  trouble  with  this  here  Camp  is  jest 
this,"  he  said:  "it's  got  a  lot  of  snifflm'  old 
fools  in  it  that  don't  know  no  better  than  to 
bust  out  cry  in'  when  they  oughter  be  happy!" 
And  then,  as  if  to  prove  how  deeply  he  felt  the 
shame  of  such  weakness  on  the  part  of  others, 
Judge  Priest  blew  his  nose  with  great  violence, 
and  for  a  space  of  minutes  industriously  mopped 
at  his  indignant  eyes  with  an  enormous  pocket 
handkerchief. 

In  accordance  with  a  rule,  Jeff  Poindexter 
waited    up    for    his    employer.     Jeff    expected 
him  by  nine-thirty  at  the  latest;  but  it  was 
[399] 


OLD     JUDGE     PRIEST 


actually  getting  along  toward  ten-thirty  before 
Jeff,  who  had  been  dozing  lightly  in  the  dim-lit 
hall,  oblivious  to  the  fanged  attentions  of  some 
large  mosquitoes,  roused  'as  he  heard  the  sound 
of  a  rambling  but  familiar  step  clunking  along 
the  wooden  sidewalk  of  Clay  Street.  The 
latch  on  the  front  gate  clicked,  and  as  Jeff 
poked  his  nose  out  of  the  front  door  he  heard, 
down  the  aisle  of  trees  that  bordered  the  gravel 
walk,  the  voice  of  his  master  uplifted  in  solitary 
song. 

In  the  matter  of  song  the  judge  had  a  pecul 
iarity.  It  made  no  difference  what  the  words 
might  be  or  the  theme — he  sang  every  song 
and  all  songs  to  a  fine,  thin,  tuneless  little  air 
of  his  own.  At  this  moment  Judge  Priest,  as 
Jeff  gathered,  showed  a  wide  range  of  selection. 
One  second  he  was  announcing  that  his  name 
it  was  Joe  Bowers  and  he  was  all  the  way  from 
Pike,  and  the  next,  stating,  for  the  benefit  of 
all  who  might  care  to  hear  these  details,  that 
they — presumably  certain  horses — were  bound 
to  run  all  night — bound  to  run  all  day;  so  you 
could  bet  on  the  bobtailed  nag  and  he'd  bet 
on  the  bay.  Nearer  to  the  porch  steps  it 
boastingly  transpired  that  somebody  had 
jumped  aboard  the  telegraf  and  steered  her  by 
the  triggers,  whereat  the  lightnin'  flew  and  'lectri- 
fied  and  killed  ten  thousand  niggers!  But  even 
so  general  a  catastrophe  could  not  weigh  down 
the  singer's  spirits.  As  he  put  a  fumbling  foot 
upon  the  lowermost  step  of  the  porch,  he  threw 
[  400  ] 


A      BEAUTIFUL      EVENI 


his  head  far  back  and  shrilly  issued  the  following 
blanket  invitation  to  ladies  resident  in  a  far 
away  district: 

Oh,  Bowery  gals,  won't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Won't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Oh,  Bowery  gals,  won't  you  come  out  to-night9 

And  dance  by  the  light  of  the  moon? 

I  danced  with  a  gal  wtih  a  hole  in  her  stockin9; 

And  her  heel  it  kep'  a-rockin'  —  kep9  a-rockin9! 

She  was  the  purtiest  gal  in  the  room! 

Jeff  pulled  the  front  door  wide  open.  The 
song  stopped  and  Judge  Priest  stood  in  the 
opening,  teetering  a  little  on  his  heels.  His 
face  was  all  a  blushing  pink  glow  —  pinker  even 
than  common. 

"Evenin',  Jedge!"  greeted  Jeff.  "You're 
late,  suh!" 

"Jeff,"  said  Judge  Priest  slowly,  "it's  a 
beautiful  evenin'." 

Amazed,  Jeff  stared  at  him.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  drizzle  of  the  afternoon  had  changed, 
soon  after  dark,  to  a  steady  downpour.  The 
judge's  limpened  hat  brim  dripped  raindrops 
and  his  shoulders  were  sopping  wet,  but  Jeff 
had  yet  to  knowingly  and  wilfully  contradict 
a  prominent  white  citizen. 

"Yas,  suh!"  he  said,  half  affirmatively,  hah* 
questioningly.  "Is  it?" 

"It  is  so!"   said  Judge  Priest.     "Every  star 
in  the  sky  shines  like  a  diamond!    Jeff,  it's  the 
most  beautiful  evenin'  I  ever  remember!" 
[401] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUB  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OCT  1  5  1935 

APS  I  3  1936 

HIM    96  1936 


1936 


1937 
1937 


DEC  7 


JAN  4 


i  «>     1937 
FEB  6 


HAK  2  8  1939 


BRANCH    OF    THE    COLLEGE    OF   AGRICULTURE 

5m-8,'34(s) 


6ii77 


Cobb,  I.S, 

Old  Judge  Priest, 


05 
1916 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


